


The Renter

by Frances_J_Irnok



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Complete, F/F, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Parentlock, Pregnancy, Relationship(s), Sex, Sexual Content, Sherlock AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 47,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frances_J_Irnok/pseuds/Frances_J_Irnok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson finally gets a lodger in 221C and Sherlock uses this as the catalyst to propel his relationship with John to the next level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A rainy April in London - is there any other kind? 

At 221B Baker Street, John Watson was busy typing up blog for the latest case he and Sherlock Holmes had solved.  
“Well, Sherlock solved it and I trailed along like an obedient dog,” John snorted to himself. Self-deprecation aside, John knew that his insights were invaluable to Sherlock, even when he couldn’t be certain how. But he trusted in his brilliant companion’s deductions implicitly, and never doubted the detective for a second. 

John was just about to post the finished blog entry when there was a rap at the door. He answered it to find Mrs. Hudson, his landlady and sometimes housekeeper, despite her protestations. 

“Hello Dear,” She smiled, all warmth. “Sorry to bother, but I’ve finally got a renter in ‘C’ and I thought you should know, they’ll be in and out for the next week or so painting and such.” 

It looked as though Mrs. Hudson wanted to say something else; she wrung her hands and hesitated before turning around to go back down the stairs. 

“Was there something else, Mrs. Hudson?” John asked. 

“Oh, well...I was going to ask you to try and have Sherlock be nice to this one, it’s so hard to get a lodger in that basement flat and I could really use the extra income, But...Sherlock is Sherlock and I doubt there’s anything we could say to make him change. I’ll just try to make sure our new renter is prepared for his..ways.” 

John smiled a bit and put his hand on Mrs. Hudson’s shoulder. 

“Well, it’s rather like moving the Rock of Gibraltar but I’ll put a word in.” Mrs. Hudson patted his arm fondly and thanked him, slowly returning back down the steps to her own flat. 

John sighed as he returned to his sitting room and flopped into his usual chair. He was extremely fond of Sherlock, and had grown accustomed to many of his idiosyncrasies, but he knew all too well that he was the exception to the rule. The vast majority of people were offended, incensed and insulted by Sherlock’s lack of social graces. As fond as John was of Mrs. Hudson, John didn’t hold out much hope that this new renter would last more than two or three months, even being separated from most of Sherlock’s antics by the ground floor of the home. 

Speak of the devil, it was mere moments before Sherlock came bursting in through the door, long coat swirling about. He dropped a boxy, wire contraption on the floor of their sitting room and said, without a greeting, 

“Tea?”  
“Erm, what’s that, first?” John said, pointing at the object Sherlock had brought in. 

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock huffed, exasperated. “A trap. A trap for small animals.” 

“Yes, but what’s it doing in our sitting room?” 

“Needed it for a case. Isn’t it funny how people throw just anything into the rubbish bins, convinced that once it’s been binned their detritus ceases to exist?” 

“I’m not following,” Said John. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a sigh and said, “Make the tea, I’ll explain while the kettle’s on.” 

Knowing he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Sherlock until he’d had his tea, John harrumphed and strode into the kitchen, switching the kettle on and retrieving cups. 

“That still doesn’t answer,” John said, fiddling with teabags, “Why there is a small animal trap in our flat.” 

Sherlock was lost in thought, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Noting the faraway look in his flatmate’s eyes, John knew that he was going to get nowhere until Sherlock had been given his tea. They waited in silence for the water to boil and John handed over a cup and saucer to Sherlock, an expectant look in his eye. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, although it was more of an empty phrase than a genuine gesture of thanks. 

He turned on his heel and sat on their sofa, John following in his wake. 

“Rubbish,” said Sherlock. 

“The tea?” Puzzled John. 

“Of course not, can’t you keep up?” Sherlock said dismissively. “The answer was in the wife’s rubbish. She’d thrown away any trace of her infidelities, not knowing that her bins were regularly raided by rodents. Fairly common, in a semi-rural area. The rodents had taken much of these discards and used them to pad their holes. I found the rodents, and thus, found the evidence that I’d needed to determine for certain that she had killed those people.” 

John nodded slowly and sagely, pretending that the gaps in Sherlock’s narrative had made perfect sense. 

“Well, there’s another one for the blog,” He said, sipping his tea. 

Sherlock didn’t respond. The puzzle completed, his mind was already jumping to the next thing. John perused the paper as Sherlock sat on the sofa aloof, lost in endlessly complex thought. John was nearly startled when Sherlock sprang himself off the sofa with a graceful leap and hovered near the door. John opened his mouth to speak but was shushed before he could make a sound. 

“Unfamiliar footsteps,” Sherlock growled. “Slow, unsure. Female, not male, too firm-footed to be Mrs. Hudson.” 

John knew better than to say anything. He simply watched and let the drama unfold before him. Sherlock counted down silently. 

“Three...two...one…” he mouthed. 

On the count of one Sherlock flung the door open and stood face to face with the person in the stairwell. Short and with dirty blonde hair, it was a woman, late twenties, her face frozen in shock and her hand raised to rap upon the door. 

“Yes?” Sherlock said, looking down at her imperiously. 

“Ah, hi. I’m sorry to bother you, I was just looking for Mrs Hudson…” The young woman trailed off nervously, trying to regain her composure after the fright he’d given her. 

“American,” Sherlock mused to no one in particular, judging the stranger in the hall.  
“I’m aware the American educational system is in disarray, however I would hope that they still teach the basics of literacy. This,” he said, pointing a long, slim finger at the brass “B” that hung next to his door, “Is the letter “B”. Mrs Hudson resides in 221 “A.” Are you illiterate, careless, or too stupid to tell the difference?” 

The woman before him took a moment to recover from his verbal abuse and, much to Sherlock’s surprise, giggled. He looked down at her as she composed herself, and behind him, John launched himself off of his chair in an attempt to get between them and smooth any hurt feelings Sherlock may have caused. 

Her giggles contained, she looked up at him again. “You must be Sherlock,” she asserted. “I’m sorry, I giggle when I’m nervous. I’m sorry to bother you.” John shoved Sherlock over slightly and said with an affable smile and an outstretched hand, “Hello, I’m John Watson.”  
The woman shook his hand and introduced herself. 

“Jamie,” she responded. “Nice to meet you John, Mrs. Hudson told me about you and your...Sherlock.” She mumbled Sherlock’s name.  
“Oh, you must be the new one down in ‘C’!” John asserted, his voice friendly. He didn’t bother to interject that he and Sherlock weren’t a couple. It wasn’t conscious, but over the last couple years he dropped all protests and let people think what they wanted to.  
Jamie nodded affirmatively.  
“Yes, that’s right. I had a few questions about the remodel and thought she might be up here, since I’d already checked downstairs and she wasn’t home.” She said the last bit pointedly, staring at Sherlock, being sure he got the message. 

“No, she’s not here, but I’ll tell her you came by if I see her,” John said generously. 

“Thank you. It was...nice meeting you.” With that, Jamie turned and headed down the stairs, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. 

John closed the door behind them with a sigh. His eyes closed, he made the realization that he hadn’t paid any attention to her figure at all. He was an extremely visual man, and there was a time when he never failed to commit a woman’s figure to memory. It unsettled him slightly to realize that he’d spent several minutes in the company of his young, female new neighbor and it hadn’t even occurred to him to examine the size of her breasts or the shape of her arse. 

“It’s Sherlock,” he thought to himself. “I was more worried about smoothing the feathers he’d ruffled than going on the pull.” 

He crossed the room in two strides, resuming his place in the chair. 

“Insulting the neighbor, excellent work as always.” 

John was surprised that there was no immediate retort from Sherlock. He glanced over to see Sherlock lying on his back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. John recognized that vacant stare. 

“Mind palace?” He asked. 

“Shh,” Sherlock responded with a wave of his arm and his brow furrowed.

“I’ll be out then,” John said, despite knowing that it mattered little what he said at that point.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock take stock of their respective futures.

Sherlock had new information to catalogue into his brain. He deftly filed away all the new information he’d gleaned about this new neighbor and then leapt from the couch, a decision made. He took the stairs two at a time until he stood before the door of 221C. He very nearly rapped at the door with his fist, then thought better of it. This would require more study, he determined, before heading back up to his flat to continue his mental processing. 

As Sherlock plumbed the depths of his brain in their flat, John had walked to a pub and had a pint. As he sipped, he pondered how his life had changed in the three years since he’d met Sherlock. Without really realizing it, he had, in many ways, ceased to be an entity separate from Sherlock. Counting back, he was only mildly surprised to find that he hadn’t been on a date in a year, despite being a serial dater in the two years following his return from Afghanistan. Trying to maintain a relationship had become an exercise in endless heartbreak for the women and frustration for him. Perhaps what surprised John the most was how little he missed the company of a woman in his life. In the past there had been dreams of marriage and a family, but for now, the foreseeable future held only Sherlock and the cases they solved together. John drained the last of his pint and realized that he was startlingly okay with that. He chuckled inwardly at the mental image of himself and Sherlock as a sort of real-life Odd Couple, two crotchety old bachelors fussing over their differences. 

Back at 221B, while John was away making realizations about his life and what his future likely held, Sherlock was also considering the future, albeit much more actively. He was planning. In his mind’s eye, his life was stretched out before him like a complex mathematical equation. Having John in his life for three years, thirty-one days and fifty eight minutes had allowed for a period of comfort, companionship and stability that had led to a staggering number of cases successfully solved. This pleased Sherlock. And when he thought of how it pleased him, it was not so much about the innocents he’d exonerated, nor the people he’d avenged. It was about the balance of it all, the tying up of loose ends. With every case solved, that was another injection of logic and correctness into the universe, and that was nearly, nearly as good as an injection into his veins. 

Logically, if Sherlock wished for this situation to continue well into the future, he’d need John. He winced when the word need flashed before his eyes. Need: Definition, OED: A lack of something deemed necessary. Necessary. He played with the word in his mind, pulling it apart by syllable and putting it together again. If anything was necessary in Sherlock’s life, it was John. It was now, he decided within himself, that Sherlock had to face just how necessary John was to him. His heart rate increased by 15 beats per minute when he thought of all the times he’d attempted to reach out and touch John, to do something as simple as brushing lint off the shoulder of one of his jumpers or to scoop him up into a grand, sweeping hug. But out of respect for John’s heterosexuality, not to mention the odds of outright rejection, Sherlock had forgone physical touch. If he was going to keep John in his life, Sherlock decided, he was going to have to find a way to bring him everything he wanted in life to 221B Baker Street, so that he would never feel the need to leave in search of companionship, family or love. 

Sherlock was still lying prone on the sofa when John came home from the pub. John didn’t bother greeting Sherlock. He’d seen him in this sort of fugue state, lost in thought before, and knew that he’d be more likely to get a reply from Billy the skull. But if John was observing instead of simply seeing, he’d know that the hairs on Sherlock’s forearms stood up when John entered a room, that Sherlock had to struggle to keep his heart rate down, and that Sherlock’s nerves positively buzzed when John was within reach. 

As it was, John set the kettle to boil, steeped a mug of tea and toasted two pieces of bread, and placed it all on the table next to Sherlock before heading off to bed. He didn’t know why, he just felt less guilty if he knew Sherlock was getting some sort of nutrition, even if he never saw him eat it. As he bent over, placing the hot tea and toast on the low table beside the sofa, John had to fight an urge to brush the curls off Sherlock’s forehead fondly, as a parent would do with a sleeping child. Unsettled by envisioning making such an intimate gesture, John shook his head and trudged up to his bedroom to sleep restlessly. 

That night, John’s dreams were strange. He found himself in different scenarios, each ending with him reaching for something that he desperately wanted, something he felt he needed in order for his life to be complete. Each time, when he reached his goal, instead of finding the expected prize, it was always Sherlock that was waiting there for him at the end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets to know his new neighbor.

Sherlock was relieved that John had turned away so suddenly after he’d placed the tea and toast next to him. If John hadn’t turned so quickly, he might have noticed that Sherlock’s cheeks flushed red at the little kindness John had done for him. It was all Sherlock could do not to open his eyes and sit up, kissing John on the forehead as he bent over. 

Once he’d heard the telltale sounds of John ascending the stairs and then settling into sleep, Sherlock sat up and ate his toast gratefully. He chewed aggressively, mulling things over and over inside his mind. Once the toast was gone to the last crumb, he drained half his tea in one gulp and descended the stairs quietly. It was late, but simple observation told him that his new neighbor was still quite awake. The door, while locked, was not bolted, and soft light emanated from around the cracks where the door didn’t quite meet its frame.  
He rapped gently on the door of 221C and heard movement within.  
“Who is it?” Jamie's voice asked tentatively.  
“Sherlock,” he answered. “Your neighbor.” He put some honey into his deep voice and said with false humility: “I’ve come to, er, apologize.”  
Jamie unlocked the door and stood before him, looking quite short in pajamas and a plush robe. She smiled at him out of politeness, but there was unease in her voice.  
“Um, you know it’s after midnight, right?”  
“Of course,” he responded coolly. “I couldn’t help but notice that you were still awake, as am I, and I felt that there was no time like the present to extend my apologies for my brusqueness earlier this afternoon.” 

Jaimie hesitated yet again, still unsure of what to make of her late night visitor.  
“Well, I’m still not quite adjusted to the time change yet, my sleep schedule is still all over the place. I don’t see how you could tell I was awake though, from all the way upstairs,” she gestured, pointing her hand upward. 

“It’s what I do,” Sherlock responded. He kept talking at her, quickly, trying to overwhelm her into letting him in. “Consulting detective. Only one in the world.”  
“You mean, like, a private investigator?” Jamie asked innocently.  
“Nothing like a private investigator.” Sherlock responded in a frosty voice.  
“Give me five minutes-no-two minutes in your flat and I can tell you your life story.”  
“Why would I want you to do that?”  
Sherlock blinked, for a nanosecond he was taken off guard but he recovered just as quickly. 

“Call it a free consultation, a means of apologizing for my rudeness earlier.”  
Jamie leaned against the doorframe, her arms folded in front of her chest.  
“Really, Mr. Holmes, there’s no need.”  
“It’s Sherlock, please.” She wasn’t budging. He went for it, hoping she would be as easily impressed as John had been. Sherlock had to admit to himself he far preferred people like John who were easily impressed by his skills of deduction. It made them far easier to manipulate. He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked down at her intently. 

“Your name is Jamie Van Buren. You turn thirty quite soon and the thought of spending that birthday alone in a new city depresses you. You’re here on a student visa, you’re working toward your PhD in Psychology and you could only afford to come to London because you’ve been given a very generous grant.”  
Her eyebrows raised and she looked impressed for a scant second before countering.  
“You could have gotten all of that from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock.” 

“Well played,” Sherlock admitted. “However, in the hours since you came to my flat searching for her, she hasn’t been home. As I’d just learned of your existence when we’d met, there’s no way that Mrs. Hudson could have told me anything about you either beforehand or since.” He held up a finger to silence the protest from her open mouth. “And I couldn’t have reached her by mobile since once again she’s left it on the stand by the door.” He cocked an ear and when she listened more closely she could indeed hear the humming of a chirpy ringtone coming from just beyond the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. 

“Well, you’re quick, I’ll give you that,” Jamie said slightly less than generously, beckoning for him to come in and leading the way down the stairs. “At least this will be more interesting than counting sheep.” 

Sherlock followed at a quick pace, taking in every new detail and storing it away in his memory banks. 221C, a damp, depressingly dreary flat, was slowly changing into a place of warmth and homey charm. Cheerful yellow wallpaper had been hung and a random collection of worn yet comfortable furniture sat here and there. “Alright, this is your two minutes, go!” Jamie urged as she flopped down into an overstuffed armchair. 

Sherlock wasted no time investigating every inch of Jamie’s flat, cataloguing even the most inane details. He strode confidently through the sitting room, then passed quickly through the small dining area before surveying the kitchen, throwing open cupboard doors. Satisfied with what he found in the kitchen, he nearly sprinted into the tiny bathroom, looking it over before moving into her bedroom. He emerged triumphantly and sat down across from her, with seconds to spare. 

“So what did you learn? Find any surprises?” Jamie asked with a smile. Her curiosity had genuinely been piqued by the odd, tall man who’d just visually ransacked her flat. 

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly and leaned back in his chair.  
“Very little surprises me, Jamie.”  
“So go on, spill!” She urged.  
“It is exactly as I’d deduced, nearly from the moment we met. You are indeed a psychology student. You’ve travelled all over the United States, going wherever there was a university that would offer you a scholarship. You’ve always dreamt of studying abroad, but your lack of resources, not to mention your inability to learn a foreign language, curtailed those dreams. Until your Master’s thesis on the use of psychological counseling to empower those in third-world and developing nations was published. It earned you a grant and the attention of Regent’s University, which offered you a position in the doctorate of psychotherapy program. Shall I continue?”  
Jamie nodded enthusiastically despite herself.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and continued.  
“There was some sort of dysfunction in your family as you grew up, leaving you estranged from them now as an adult. You have few friends but the ones you do have are close and you enjoy a deep mutual affection. You’ve never married, and you’re childless, obviously. You have a fondness for dogs yet you’ve resigned yourself to not allowing yourself a pet. Despite your lack of interest in marriage, you’ve had quite the healthy dating life, enjoying romantic relationships with men and women.” 

Jamie grinned and shook her head in disbelief. “Wow,” she mused. “That’s a lot to come up with in two minutes, Sherlock.”  
“Any inaccuracies?” He inquired.  
“None whatsoever,” Jamie replied. “But now I’m at a disadvantage, because you know so much about me now and I barely know more than your name!” 

He waved off her attempt at getting to know him.  
“As I said before, it’s what I do. I find it far more fascinating to learn the secrets of others than it is to drone on about my own irrelevant details.” 

She nodded, considering this for a moment. 

“Any tea?” He asked hopefully. “I’m parched.”  
She looked at her mobile, confirming that it was still well past midnight. She raised her eyebrow to his strange request, but decided, just the same, to make him a cup. If nothing else, he was more amusing to watch than anything on television. 

“Sure,” she offered. “But don’t get your hopes up, I’m an ignorant American, remember?” She teased with a grin. “I don’t know the secret British nuances of making tea.”  
He didn’t even chuckle, his mind already elsewhere.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie meets Molly, scolds Sherlock, and gets herself a crush.

Sherlock stayed in Jamie’s flat for at least an hour afterwards, casually chatting her up and learning everything he could about her. When she was no longer able to stifle her yawns, he excused himself and said, as sincerely as he was able, “I hope we can do this again sometime.”  
He dashed back up to his own flat and dove headfirst into the case he was researching. Feeling exhausted after forcing himself to socialize, he shook his head in wonder at how common people managed. Still, his stubbornness prevailed over his fatigue and when John awoke at 7, Sherlock was still poring over notes, graphs and charts. 

“The serial murder?” John queried, shuffling into the kitchen in his robe and flicking the kettle on.  
“Mhm,” Sherlock replied.  
“Well, I hope you can manage it on your own ‘cause I’ve got a full shift at the clinic today.” John didn’t get a response from Sherlock, but he did feel a pleasant little twinge of happiness when he noted the empty plate and mug from the food he’d given Sherlock the night before. He was nearly ready to leave for work when Sherlock stood bolt upright, his chair falling flat behind him, and shouted, “YES!”  
“Oh, I think I’ve got it, John, and it is delicious! I have to consider it further, of course, so you’ll need to run down to the morgue, collect the autopsy results for all the other victims, and bring them back here straight away. I think I’ve found the common thread that points straight at our killer!” Sherlock’s fists were clenched and his face triumphant: John would not have been surprised to see him leap for joy.  
“Ah, yes, but Sherlock, I’m off to work. I can’t call in, I’m due there in 15 minutes and I’m the only doctor on shift all morning.”

For someone as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes, he really could be thick. He stood there, pondering down at John as though John had just announced his engagement to a waterfowl or something equally as bizarre. 

“You...can’t?” John braced himself for the inevitable sulk, but was pleasantly surprised when Sherlock adapted.  
“Oh, fine, go off and stitch your little wounds and treat your little coughs, but this is so much more intriguing John, really it is.” Sherlock wasn’t pleased, obviously, but he was taking it well, once he’d gotten over the initial shock of John telling him no. 

“Right then, Sherlock - and, er, thanks.” John said before turning and leaving. Sherlock bit at a thumbnail before sighing and texting Molly: 

URGENT: Need files from previous 4 unsolved murders. -SH.

Minutes later, he got a response. 

I just walked in the door, can’t John come fetch them? 

NO. Clinic today, dreadful. Tedious. PLEASE bring files round, I need them at once! -SH 

How do I get them to you? 

No time for typing them up, get a cab and come straight away. You know the address. -SH

Alright Sherlock, just this once. 

QUICKLY! -SH

In the morgue at St Bart’s, Molly sighed and gathered the files, then dashed out the door to catch a cab, hoping she wouldn’t regret leaving work. Meanwhile, at Baker Street, Sherlock’s excitement at cracking the case wears off, and he passes out on the sofa, dead to the world. 

Molly had the cab stop on Baker Street and paid the fare, knowing there was no hope of recouping the money from Sherlock. She sighed a little and looked at her reflection in the window of the cafe next door to 221B. Her oversized windbreaker dwarfed her, and her khaki pants hid any trace of a svelte figure. Still wearing the non-skid clogs she preferred in the morgue, she trepidatiously made her way up the stairs to Sherlock and John’s flat. She knocked several times and puzzled at the fact that there was no answer, despite Sherlock’s insistence that it was an absolute emergency that she brought this armload of files round to his place. Unsure of what to do, and considering just leaving the files on Sherlock’s doorstep, she heard a door open below. 

“H-Hello?” Molly called out timidly.  
“Hi!” A friendly voice, tinged with sunshine, called up the stairs. “Can I help you?” The woman called up to Molly. Molly sighed gratefully and descended the stairs. She rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a woman who must be one of John and Sherlock’s neighbors - she was poking her head out from a door that read 221C. 

“Hi, um, sorry to bother, but, do you know Sherlock?” Molly asked shyly.  
“No bother at all!” The woman smiled generously. Molly considered the big smile and the accent momentarily before deciding that this woman must be an American.  
“My name’s Jamie,” she offered her hand.  
Grasping the offered hand, Molly said, “Molly Hooper, nice to meet you.”  
“And yes, I know Sherlock. How could I not? Mrs. Hudson briefed me on him before I even moved in,” Jamie explained, shaking her head and rolling her eyes at the memory.  
“Care to come in for some tea?” Jamie asked.  
“Oh, um...that would be lovely, thanks,” said Molly, hesitating slightly.  
“It’s the polite thing to do, I am learning,” Jamie said with a smile as she led Molly down the stairs to her basement flat. “When in Rome, you know. When in London, offer a cup of tea!”  
The stairs into Jamie's apartment led right into the sitting room, and she told Molly to make herself comfortable. Molly sat down, grateful to have a place to rest the load of files Sherlock had insisted she hand deliver. As Jamie busied herself in the kitchen making tea, Molly looked around and took in her surroundings. 

What could have been a very damp, bleak flat indeed had been transformed to a warm, comfortable and welcome place. A wallpaper with broad yellow and white stripes covered the wall behind the fireplace, and the room was illuminated by the soft light of several lamps. A couple of braided rugs lay scattered on the polished wooden floor, and the sofa Molly was sitting upon was upholstered in a rosy chintz. There were a multitude of plants were scattered here and there, and a small yet cheery fire crackling in the fireplace. Stacks of books were scattered here and there, and Molly perceived the hum of some sort of machine, a white noise she couldn’t place. 

“Dehumidifiers,” said Jamie, carrying a couple of mugs of tea into the sitting room. Sure enough, Molly could spy three or four of the machines whirring away, partially obscured by books or plants or tables.  
“This being a basement apartment in London, it was quite damp. I told Mrs. Hudson that I’d put some work into the room if she took the amount off my rent, and she was glad to make the deal. Apparently it’s hard for her to get down these stairs with her hip, and the cold and damp of this place just made the ache worse. So I, and a couple local guys I hired, worked on this place for a full two weeks before I moved in. 12 hours a day, some days! We stripped the floors and refinished them, put up the wallpaper...” Jamie flopped onto the sofa next to Molly and handed her a mug of tea. Noticing Molly’s silence, Jamie spoke apologetically. 

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry, I’ve been rambling and I’ll bet you don’t give a damn but you’re too polite to say so." Molly’s cheeks turned slightly pink.  
“No, it’s not that, I was just thinking of how these files need to get to Sherlock.” Molly nodded in the direction of the stack of files which now sat on Jamie's coffee table.  
“Oh! That explains why you're here,” Jamie said, her seemingly ever-present smile still fixed to her face.  
“Tell you what,” Jamie proposed, “I’ll write a note for Sherlock telling him that they are here and when he gets back he can pick them up from me, okay? I’ll be home for the rest of the day.” 

“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you,” Molly said. “I just-well, see, I work at the morgue and Sherlock texted demanding that I drop everything and deliver some files to him, which I shouldn’t do, but seeing as he’s Sherlock I thought it would be alright, so I gathered them up and took a cab over, and now he’s not even home.” Molly grimaced slightly. 

“Ptthhbbt,” Jamie blew a raspberry, which struck Molly as both odd and amusing. “How rude, taking you away from your job like that, and not even having the courtesy to be here! Granted, no one you’re working on is very likely to check their watch impatiently,” Jamie teased. 

It took Molly a moment, but she realized that Jamie had made a joke about her job. Molly smiled gratefully and took a gulp of tea. “Most people, well, they are put off when I tell them what I do. They tell me it’s creepy. Not many people are okay enough with it to make a joke. I, I like that you can.” Molly smiled. 

Jamie smiled back and said, “To the contrary, I think it’s intriguing. I could never do it of course, bodily fluids really squick me out, but it’s a neat contrast that someone as beautiful and rosy and as alive as you works with the exact opposite.” Molly blushed a brilliant crimson, peering down into her tea and letting her hair fall over her shoulders, obscuring her face. 

“Th-thank you,” she mumbled, not knowing how to take the compliment. Jamie shrugged nonchalantly. “I call them like I see them,” she said matter-of-factly. Molly was still nearly paralyzed with shyness when Jamie nudged her elbow.  
“Tell you what, Moll. You wait right here and I’ll pop a note on Sherlock’s door telling him where he can find these files, okay?” 

Molly looked up, her face still a vibrant red. She gave a little grin and nodded eagerly, her thanks evident without her needing to speak them. Jamie strode across to her small dining nook, which looked more like a makeshift office than a place to serve meals, and jotted a note on a scrap of paper.  
“Back in a jif!” She said brightly, dashing up the stairs. 

Once alone, Molly felt as though she were finally able to breathe. She felt so comfortable, so relaxed and able to be herself around the bodies in the morgue, but when it came to live people she had a terrible time. But she liked Jamie, she really did. Her ready smile and her kindness, and her willingness to open up and be so forthright. It was all quite overwhelming, but Molly secretly hoped that she might become good friends with Jamie. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Jamie announced as she bounced back down the stairs. Molly heard light, quick footsteps behind Jamie and knew instantly that it was Sherlock. She would be mortified to admit it, but when she had a huge crush on Sherlock she’d memorized the pattern of his walk, and how his footfalls sounded. She would know his approach even if she were blind. 

“H-Hello, Sherlock,” Molly said, rising to her feet.  
“I thought I told you to bring these straight to me,” he said, sans greeting.  
Her shoulders slumped just a touch.  
“I did, I got a cab and came straight away, but I knocked and knocked at your door until your neighbor heard me and invited me in for a cuppa…” she trailed off, looking very much like she expected Sherlock to scold her.  
“It was unlocked,” Sherlock responded huffily. 

“Hey!” Jamie interjected, her voice slightly raised. “Molly here took time out of her work schedule to come and do a favor for you, the least you can do is thank her instead of being such an ungrateful cuss.”  
In tandem, Molly and Sherlock both turned their heads in her direction with disbelief. Sherlock’s expression turned sour, and Molly hid a silent giggle behind her hand, awed to see someone speak to Sherlock like that.  
Sherlock briefly cast his gaze across Molly and said a perfunctory “Thank you,” before scooping up the files and retreating upstairs. Once he was out of earshot, Molly let her nervous giggles spill forth. 

“Did I do something funny?” Jamie asked, puzzled.  
“It’s just...it’s just that most people I know never speak to Sherlock that way. You just scolded him like he was a little boy, and, well, I’ve never seen anyone do that, much less get away with it! Well, unless you count John, but John gets away with all sorts of things no one else would dream of saying to Sherlock.” 

“Well,” Jamie pondered, “Sometimes we let the person closest to us get away with all sorts of things we wouldn’t normally tolerate.”  
As she watched Molly giggle, Jamie was really stricken by how beautiful she was. Her long brown hair fell in waves, her expressive mouth smiled beautifully, and her eyes- Jamie had to keep herself from staring. She’d felt a fondness for Molly almost instantaneously and realized that it would not take very much at all to fall for her. Jamie felt heat rising in her face as she allowed herself to ponder what Molly might look like without layers of baggy clothing hiding her figure…


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spicy smut happens in this chapter, and we finally learn what Sherlock has been up to.

Days passed quickly for everyone. Jamie had a lot of work ahead of her, getting her flat in order, studying and growing accustomed to living in a new country. John and Sherlock, as usual, were dashing back and forth across London, risking life and limb to track down criminals and having more fun than ought to be allowed while doing so. Their lives weren’t totally separate, however. From time to time Jamie could be persuaded to buy milk for the boys if she was going shopping anyhow, and Sherlock had made a habit of coming to call on Jamie at least once every other day to chat. 

Jamie found his attention interesting, if more than a bit perplexing. He enjoyed wringing every bit of information out of her that he could, yet he never gave any indication that he was interested in anything further than just friendship. Her relationship with John never came quite as easily as the one with Sherlock. John was pleasant yet standoffish, and if she didn’t know any better Jamie would have thought that John was a bit jealous at the time Sherlock had been spending loitering in her flat. 

Over the course of the next couple of months, Jamie began to wring small pieces of information out of Sherlock as they got to know one another. She learned he had a brother, Mycroft, the mention of whom could bring a sneer to Sherlock’s lips instantly. She learned that he was a self-diagnosed sociopath, and she gently suggested that the more correct terminology might be Antisocial Personality Disorder. She had tea in Sherlock’s flat once or twice, and was far too polite to ever mention the fact that she’d seen and read papers splayed out on his coffee table which indicated he’d been tested and was free of all sexually transmitted diseases. Jamie thought that was rather an odd packet of papers to just leave lying around, but she’d come to learn there was very little point in questioning Sherlock. She’d just hoped that he wasn’t having problems in his relationship with John which had required them to get tested. Granted, he had never explicitly mentioned that he was in a relationship with John, but she felt it went without saying. 

Largely though, it was Jamie talking as Sherlock listened. Despite having his own agenda, Sherlock helped Jamie adjust to her new life in London more than he ever knew. It helped her to have someone she could say anything to. It helped him to create a more complete profile of her in his mind. 

Sherlock had made it habitual to visit Jamie often. The longer he spent with her the more convinced that she was the correct person to help him see out his plan to fruition. He had no real attraction to her: that portion of his brain had become completely devoted to John. He wanted, no, needed for John to stay with him. It stood to reason that if he was going to accomplish that end, he would have to bring whatever John wanted to Baker Street so that he would never, ever have to leave. 

On a balmy evening at the end of June, Sherlock showered and dressed carefully. His tongue was dry and his hands were shaking almost imperceptibly. This was the night, if all his calculations had been correct, which, of course they had been, this was the night upon which everything rested. 

Sherlock rapped on Jamie's door. At the sound of his familiar knock, she called for him to come in. He found her sitting at her dining table, surrounded by piles of papers.   
“Hello, Sher,” she said pleasantly. He looked down at her, heartbeat thudding in his ears, and took a deep breath. 

“Jamie, do you find me attractive?”   
Eyebrow raised and mouth agape, she stared at him.  
“Umm...what?”   
“Sherlock sighed impatiently.   
“Do you find me attractive? Are you interested in me physically? Does that clarify?”   
She gaped, her entire face turning a rather alarming shade of crimson.   
“I think I need a glass of water,” Jamie decided, getting up and walking to the kitchen. After she’d poured herself an ice cold water and had drunk half of it, she felt ready to speak again.   
“Why are you asking me this?” She said.   
“Curiosity, intrigue, _interest_ ,” Sherlock said, emphasizing the last word. Jamie nodded slowly, trying to wrap her head around it all.   
“Honestly Sherlock, I thought you were...I mean, you and John, you know...aren’t you two gay?” 

“Sexuality is rather fluid, wouldn’t you agree?” Sherlock purred. “And John and I are in no way romantically linked.”   
“Yet,” he added to himself silently. 

“Okay, so, Sherlock, I find you really fascinating, but I’m just not sure about a relationship, our lives are so different, and-” He extended a long finger and pressed it to her lips.   
“I’m not suggesting a relationship, Jamie. I’m suggesting that two attractive, consenting adults go to bed together.”   
There was no need for Sherlock to take Jamie’s pulse - he could see it throbbing in her neck. 

“I...don’t know what to say,” Jamie mumbled.   
“Then don’t say anything,” Sherlock murmured.  
He bent his head down and captured her lips in a warm kiss, snaking his long arms around her body and pulling her close. She moaned softly into his mouth and returned his kisses with a lustful urgency.   
Every move Sherlock made was planned and calculated carefully. He rested his hands on her hips for a time until he felt she was pliant enough to let him touch her more intimately. His slender fingers worked their way under her t-shirt and stroked her belly and sides before working their way up her torso and brushing gently across her breasts. It was all he could do to refrain from grinning in triumph as he felt her muscles go slack. She was surrendering to him, exactly as he’d planned. 

Sherlock pulled a hand out from under Jamie’s shirt and deftly took down her ponytail, tossing aside her hair band and tousling her hair loose while his other hand continued its gentle yet intense play at her breast. With a moan and a shiver, Jamie pulled her lips away from his and grabbed his hand, leading him out of the kitchen and into her bedroom. He began disrobing, removing his jacket and his form-fitting button down as she closed the bedroom door behind them. Naked to the waist, he pulled her to him and removed her shirt, tossing it across the room, then he enveloped her with his long arms and tall stature, brushing his naked skin against hers wherever he could manage it. A flick of Sherlock’s fingertips and he had her bra sprung open, releasing her small yet firm breasts. Jamie shuddered involuntarily at the feeling of the cool air on her nipples, then gave a surprised moan when Sherlock cupped her bottom in his hands, supporting her thighs with his forearms so that he could lift her up and then lay her down upon her bed. 

This was going even better, even more swiftly than Sherlock had accounted for. There was a snag, however, a difficulty he’d not envisioned when he’d planned his seduction of Jamie. She was shirtless and positively squirming for him on her bed, and yet he hadn’t felt the slightest twitch of an erection. Planning took over where panic would have been in any other man’s mind, and Sherlock bided his time by kneeling on the bed and peeling her leggings off slowly, inch by inch, and using his lips and tongue to moisten the exposed flesh. She thought he was purposely slowing down, teasing her and making her wait, when in reality he was internally going through his mental catalogue of every arousing thought he’d ever had. 

Her pants were off and her panties nearly down to her ankles by the time a thought crossed Sherlock’s mind that made his cock twitch and his eyes go wide at the same time. Nearly two years ago, he had walked past the bathroom in his flat just in time to see John pulling on his robe after a shower. John’s back was to him, and what Sherlock saw that day was seared into his mind forever. John’s legs were long for his height, and very well toned. They culminated in a small, firm bottom which made Sherlock’s mouth water. John’s back was muscular and strong, the only imperfection was the blemish on his shoulder, a scar that had turned an angry red from the heat of John’s shower. 

That did it. The power of that memory alone, of seeing John- just half of John - naked for barely a second or two caused blood to rush to his pants. He knew what he would have to think about if he were going to make this a success.   
His mind’s eye filled with John, Sherlock removed his own trousers before laying down on top of Jamie, sucking at her collarbones and kneading her breasts. She spread her thighs readily for him, her hips rhythmically moving underneath him of their own accord. His hand reached between her legs and felt the damp, unmistakable heat of her arousal. She was already prepared for him, but he really wanted to make her wanton. With his mouth on her neck and one hand on her breast, he slipped his other hand between them and probed gently, teasing the folds of her vulva. She squealed and squirmed under his touch. Using barely more force than a feather, he used to fingertips to slide up and around either side of her clitoris. Her hips bucked violently when he rubbed and stroked at the flesh around her most sensitive spot. 

When her breath was coming in gasps and her thighs were tightening, Sherlock filled his mind with thoughts of John and plunged himself deep inside Jamie. She practically screamed with pleasure and clutched his shoulders as he thrust himself into her over and over. In minutes, he felt her body tighten from within and her nails dig into his back as her orgasm rippled through her. Determined to make her come one more time, he thrust his hand between them once more and brushed his thumb against her clitoris in time with his thrusts inside her. He felt that pressure on his cock again, that beginning of a squeeze that signalled she was about to come, and he let himself get lost in his fantasy, that he was balls deep inside John and John was begging for him to come. The feel of a sharp contraction told him Jamie was coming, and he was right behind her. As Sherlock came, his seed pouring inside of her, it was all he could do to bite his lip in time to keep him from yelling out John’s name. 

Once they’d caught their breath, Sherlock lifted himself off of Jamie and held her quietly, stroking her hair and placing her in an optimal position to fall asleep. Once her slow, even breathing signalled that she had indeed been lulled into slumber, he lithely removed himself from her bed and went to get dressed in the other room. 

Fully dressed, he sat down on her sofa and began calculating. It was 9:45 PM according to the clock on the wall. His intentions were to take her to bed one more time in about 12 hours. He knew, from the reading that he’d done, that it was probably overkill, but he was impatient and wanted to do everything he could to ensure conception. He sat silently in her sitting room for hours, only moving when he heard indications of her tossing about in her sleep. He went to her then, and climbed back into the bed, holding her gently and soothing her back into a deep sleep. He allowed himself to doze lightly, ever watchful over Jamie as she slept.   
Jamie awoke early the next morning to the sounds of the London drizzle hitting her bedroom window. Her eyes flew open when she recalled the night before, and discovered that Sherlock was still there in her bed, one of his arms draped casually around her waist.   
“Oh jeez,” she thought. She replayed the events of the night before and cursed silently when she discovered she had no memory of Sherlock using protection. She knew he was clean, from the papers she’d seen in his flat, but there was pregnancy to worry about as well. 

As if on cue, (little did Jamie know,) Sherlock made motions of waking up. “Good morning,” he said softly, stroking her shoulder.   
“Good morning yourself,” she said, turning to look at him with a smile. “I’ll be honest, I’m a touch surprised you’re still here.”   
“Am I unwelcome?” He queried.   
“Not at all, you just don’t seem the type to stay and linger for a cuddle.” 

“Normally you’d be quite right, but I’d rather hoped for...an encore,” Sherlock said, the end of his sentence loaded with meaning.   
Jamie blushed, and it only took a moment for her to acquiesce. After all, she thought to herself, it was so rare that she had someone so attractive already naked and willing in her bed, she would be a fool to turn him down.

Sherlock went through the now tried-and-true methods he’d learned for arousing her, and soon neither of them could hear the drizzle of the rain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after their one-night stand, Jamie discovers that Sherlock has changed her life irreparably.

Jaimie pushed through what she thought was a stomach bug, attending lectures and doing research while sucking candied ginger to calm her queasiness.  Ever since she’d come to London her body had been trying to adjust - to the time difference, to the food, to the weather - it was no surprise that things were all out of whack.  Arriving home one night, she dropped her bag unceremoniously and stretched out on the sofa.  The rough, dark smell of woodsmoke that emanated from the couch cushion caused her stomach to flip and she staggered to the bathroom, dry heaving.  

  
After rinsing out her mouth and wiping down her face with cool water, she felt somewhat more steady.  She plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, intent on making some peppermint tea to help quell her nausea.  She looked to her left in the hall and noticed the calendar that hung there - she was always forgetting it was even there, in hindsight it would be best to move it to someplace more visible-

  
OH. FUCK.

Her brain came to a screeching halt as she examined the calendar.  Some mental arithmetic and she realized, with her stomach dropping and her hands going cold, that it had been two months since Sherlock had come to her apartment and they’d gone to bed together.  She’d spotted a little since then, but…  
“Oh god oh god oh god,” she chanted between clenched teeth.  “FUCK!” She swore again as she grabbed for her purse and dashed down to the nearest chemists’.  Half an hour later, sweating and panting, she was back in her apartment alone, save for a plastic shopping bag which held two pregnancy tests.  Her hands shook as she fumbled with one of the boxes, trying to make sense of the instructions.  

 

“Place in urine stream, remove and wait 2 full minutes,” Jaimie read out loud, voice shaking.  The endless chorus of “fuck, fuck, fuck” never seemed to leave her brain.  Going into the kitchen and taking a large gulp of water, she went down the hall and into the bathroom, feeling almost as though she were walking toward a date with a firing squad.  

 

It was awkward, peeing on the stick, and she placed it on the sink when she was done. She purposely averted her eyes as she refastened her pants and washed her hands.  Certain that it must have been two minutes, but scared to look, Jaimie peeked at the test between two fingers.  The clear window clearly showed two vibrant pink lines.    
“Fuck...what does that mean?!”  She ran back into the kitchen to grab up the instructions.   
  
“Two lines = Pregnant.”    
  
Well there it was, there in black and white.  But surely, there was a chance it could be a false positive, right?  She scarcely dared to hope.  She tore open the second box and gulped as much water as she could hold.  She paced the length of her flat, back and forth, back and forth, until she finally felt able to give the second test a go.    
  
She followed the instructions to the letter, hoping that the result would be a different one.  It wasn’t.  Before she even got the test fully settled on the lip of the sink, there were two bright pink lines blossoming in the window of the pregnancy test.  She washed up robotically, then sat on the edge of her tub wondering just what in the hell she was going to do.

 

“This is what you fucking get,” she told herself angrily. “If you’d just stuck to women none of this would have happened.  But no, you hadn’t had a man since you were a college freshman and you just had to see if it was the same, or if it was different, and you couldn’t even be bothered to make him use a condom…Jesus, girl, you are a statistic!”  

 

Fuck.  Sherlock.  Oh, she was going to have to tell him, there was no way around it, but how?  When?  She clutched her gut, feeling queasiness wash over her.  She was pretty confident that abortion was legal in Britain, she’d tell Sherlock, because it was the right thing to do, and she’d inform him that she’d get it all taken care of straight away.  Yes, that was the only sensible thing to do.  She was living in another country, she barely knew anyone but her wacky neighbors, and she was knee-deep in her doctoral thesis...no, there was just no way this could happen right now.  She’d always sort of been ambivalent about children, especially once she began dating women pretty much exclusively since she was a sophomore in college.  Having children was not something she’d thought of while enjoying guilt-free shags with beautiful young women.  Some lesbians adopted, of course, or got artificially inseminated, but those women were older and were in committed relationships.  No, it was not something Jaimie had considered at all.  

“Fuck.”  The expletive echoed in the cold room and Jaimie felt very, very alone.  

It took a very long, sleepless night before she could bring herself to tell Sherlock.  She’d wanted to run up to his flat straight away, but by the time she’d taken the tests and coped with her own mental breakdown, it had been past midnight.  

 

They were having a heatwave in London, and the August sun sparkled as it beat down upon everything it touched.  Gazing out the window, Jamie sighed deeply.  The weather was far, far too cheerful for what she had to do today.  She searched through scraps of paper on her desk for Sherlock’s number - she knew he was only a couple flights of stairs away, but she couldn’t face his flatmate John right now.  The shame would be too great, and he’d certainly get suspicious when she asked to speak with Sherlock alone.  

She found Sherlock’s number and, fingers icy cold from nerves, she texted him.   
  
“Pop in for a chat ASAP please? -jamie.”    
  
She sat on the sofa and curled herself into a ball, waiting for her phone to buzz a response.  Instead, about 15 minutes later she heard Sherlock’s telltale footsteps on the stairs.  Shaking and feeling quite a bit queasy again, she let him in.   
  
“Yes?” He swished into her sitting room efficiently, making the room seem smaller just by his presence alone.    
“You-you might want to sit down, Sherlock,” Jaimie said, her voice quivering.  

“Tea?” He requested, hopefully.   
“Not unless you want me to puke,” she replied matter-of-factly.  

 

Eyebrow raised, and struggling to keep his face neutral, Sherlock sat and placed his fingers under his chin.  If she was about to tell him what he thought she was about to tell him, then his plan had, thus far, worked to perfection.  

 

“Sherlock, you...you remember that time we spent together, about...two months ago?”  Jaimie asked hesitantly, sitting down on a seat across from him.    
  
“Of course,” he responded coolly. “Are you...interested in revisiting our arrangement?”

“No, not at all.”  She exhaled deeply.  Here goes nothing.  Best to jump in all at once, like diving into a cold swimming pool…  
  
“Sherlock, I’m pregnant and it’s yours” Jamie blurted, then slumped into her chair.

 

Fingers still resting under his chin, Sherlock simply nodded once.   
  
Anxiety rising in her, she gathered her courage and spoke again.   
“But it’s okay, I will take care of it and make an appointment at the clinic and we won’t have to worry about it I will even pay for it myself, it’s still early enough that abortion isn’t a problem-” Sherlock stopped Jamie's rambling abruptly.    
  
“Abortion?  Clearly not.  You’ll have the child and John and I will raise it.”   
Jaimie felt like a cartoon character who had to pick up her jaw from the floor. Her blood ran cold.    
  
“You’re...you’re awfully calm about this, Sherlock.  Dare I say, you don’t even seem particularly shocked.”

“No, I had expected that this is what you wished to discuss with me.  It’s getting on two months now, even someone as busy as you was bound to start noticing certain telltale symptoms.”

Her mouth agape, it took a full 30 seconds for what Sherlock had said to really sink in.  

“WHOA.  Wait just a damn minute - Are you trying to tell me that you WANTED to get me pregnant?!”  Her voice was raised and she sat perched on the very edge of her seat.  

“I won’t lie to you, Jamie.  I wanted to have a child whom John and I could raise, and you were the first woman I’d met who was suitable in every fashion.  It took minimal effort to decipher your menstrual cycle, and you were quite receptive to the idea of going to bed with me.”   
  
Every millisecond of his calm, collected demeanor seemed like a separate slap in the face to her.  Jamie launched herself off her chair and grabbed Sherlock’s collar with both fists before she growled at him from between clenched teeth.  

“Are you...telling me...you used me...as...as...AS YOUR BROOD SOW?!”  

 

Unable to contain her rage any longer, she pummeled at Sherlock’s chest with her fists.  He allowed her to strike him twice before deftly pinning her wrists together.

 

“You fucking asshole!!!” She screamed in his face.  “Who the fuck do you think you are, to play with people’s lives like this?!  I didn’t ask for this!”   
  
Her blind rage began to melt and she was mortified to discover tears flowing freely down her face.    
  
“Why would you do this to me?”  She sobbed.  She’d been spending the last 12 hours in a tightly coiled spring of emotion, and the tension had just released.  Jamie cried, an ugly, messy cry that wracked her entire body as she sobbed.  Sherlock loosened his grip on her wrists and drew her closer to him, pulling her into his lap.  

  
“No...don’t touch me,” she said half heartedly between sobs.  Using an emotional intelligence he didn’t know he had, he kept his hold on her loose and unthreatening, his fingers ever so gently resting on her back and letting her weep and slobber into his shoulder.  Her entire body was consumed with sobbing for ten minutes and, to his credit, instead of shifting away from her and getting impatient, Sherlock forced himself to remain still, his fingertips still resting lightly on her heaving back.  

Her sobbing started to slow, her breathing got slightly more steady, and she grew quieter, hiccuping occasionally and composing herself with shuddering breaths into Sherlock’s shoulder.  She pulled her face away slightly from his shoulder, noting that his shirt was soaked through with her tears.  She shot him a hurt, indignant look and wiped her runny nose on his sleeve defiantly.    
  
“You deserved that,” she taunted, her voice hoarse from sobbing.  

 

Sherlock said nothing, still running endless calculations in his mind.  He’d thought he knew how this would play out - he’d been convinced that she would be joyous to discover she was pregnant, and be flattered that he’d thought highly enough of her that he’d go against his very nature and have sex with her to ensure conception.  He was gripped with unfamiliar emotions - doubt, fear, uncertainty.  His carefully thought out, calculated plan was collapsing.  He closed his eyes and composed himself for a moment, ensuring that his detached facade was once again in place.  

 

Jaimie was still sitting across his lap, facing him and sniffling.    
  
“How could you even begin to think that something like this was okay?” She looked deeply into his eyes as if she’d find the answer within.

“I...underestimated the emotional ramifications,” Sherlock said in a muted tone.    
  
“Underestimated-honestly, Sherlock, are you emotionally retarded?!”  She shook her head at him, eyes filled with wariness.  

“That’s...entirely probable,” he said, barely above a whisper.  

“You used me, Sherlock,” She said, tears welling up in her eyes again.  “You used me, and you hurt me, and now there’s a third person here who has to suffer the consequences of your selfish actions.”

Understanding her meaning, he glanced down at her still flat stomach.  

“I swear to you, you will not have to do a thing.  I will pay for every second of medical care, for every moment of inconvenience.”

“You think this is about _money_?” She asked, clearly repulsed.  

“What else can I offer?”  He shrugged.    
  
“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” She angrily pushed herself up and off of his lap.

 

“I need to get out of here and do some thinking,” Jaimie declared, grabbing for her purse and a handful of tissues.    
“And you know what, Sherlock Holmes?  I just realized something.  The ball is in my court now, buddy.  Whatever happens from this moment forward is my choice.  You’ve lost the ability to control this situation, from this moment forward.  And I’ll bet that scares the hell outta you.”    
She turned on her heel and dashed up the steps, slamming her door closed behind her.  

 

Sherlock sat silently, fingers propped under his chin, analyzing what had just come to pass.  If he were to be brutally honest with himself, he was worried.  Not scared, per se, but worried.  He didn’t like it when there were things that were out of his control, which is why he drew such supreme satisfaction from outsmarting criminals and untangling their crimes.  His intellect made it feel as though they were merely players on a stage, acting out scenarios for his amusement.  And nothing could be resolved until the great Sherlock Holmes swooped in and set things right.  
  
But now...his success or failure depended upon the actions of another, and that made him fiercely uncomfortable.  After a time he rose from his seat in Jamie's apartment, locking the door behind him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a full week since Jamie and Sherlock's big confrontation, and she is enjoying keeping him guessing.

It was six long, maddening days before Sherlock spoke to Jamie again.  He marveled at her ability to slip past him, and if he hadn’t been so concerned about where they stood with regards to the pregnancy, he’d have been further convinced that she’d been the right choice to bear his child on the strength of her subterfuge alone.  

 

Unfortunately for John, he was the one who bore the brunt of Sherlock’s ill temper during those six days.  Sherlock sulked and stalked around the flat, he was especially rude to Donovan and he called into question Anderson’s parentage in front of no less than half of Scotland Yard.  

 

John snapped on day five.    
“What the hell has gotten in to you, Sherlock? You’ve been fucking insufferable for a week!  Even worse than usual, I might add.”  John stood before Sherlock, blocking his exit from the kitchen.  

Sherlock turned his head, refusing to meet John’s eyes.  He’d certainly felt prickly, but he’d had no real concept of how insufferable his behavior had grown until John cornered him.    
“It’s too complex to explain,” Sherlock said, trying to keep a haughty note in his voice.    
“Talk it out?”  Offered John.    
“Not possible,” responded Sherlock.  He gathered up every ounce of humility that resided within him and looked up at John.    
“I _am_ sorry.  You are the last person I want to annoy.  Listen, I have to look over some tissue samples at the morgue, I’ll buy us a take away on my way home, whatever you like.”    
John raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Is this going to be like last time, where I wait for you until 12:30 in the morning and nearly gnaw my arm off from hunger?”

“No.”  Sherlock sounded definite.  “No later than seven.  You have my word on this, John.”   
Suspicious, and slightly concerned at the seriousness with which Sherlock offered dinner, John accepted.    
“Right then.  Thai, if you don’t mind.  You know what I like.  I’m off now, covering lunch breaks at the clinic.”  With one more worried glance in Sherlock’s direction, John left to do battle against chicken pox, broken bones and the common cold.    
  
Sherlock was glad that John didn’t look back as he descended the steps.  If he had, he would have seen Sherlock with his defenses down.  A worried, pensive frown and longing in his eyes.  There was nothing that Sherlock wanted more than to make things right - everything.  He just had to wait for Jamie’s decision, and that was maddening.  If Sherlock was honest with himself, deeply honest about his desires, he’d have grabbed John up and held him, wrapping himself around him and begging John to hold him close as he would spill all his secrets into John’s ear, knowing that John would make it all okay, somehow.  

 

With a sigh Sherlock raised his defenses once more and strode out of the flat, headed for St Bart’s morgue.  By the time he got there, his mood was dark once again, but he forced himself to bite his tongue when he saw Molly’s smiling, eager face.  She was far too easy a target and he would get no joy from cutting her down with his words and watching her crumple.

 

“Hello Sherlock!”  She said brightly.    
“Molly.”  He nodded curtly and began retrieving his tissue samples.    
“Been having a rough time of it, then?” Molly probed.    
  
Without looking away from the slides under his microscope, Sherlock spoke.   
“Been gossiping?”    
Her cheeks flushed slightly and she fidgeted with her hands.   
“Oh no, nothing like that, it’s just that Lestrade was here the other day and he mentioned that you were...unhappy.”   
“Lestrade said unhappy?” Sherlock asked skeptically.   
“Well, no, it was more like, ‘acting like an insufferable prick who-’”   
“Understood, Molly.  Thank you.” If he hadn’t been in such a foul mood, he might have smirked at the incongruity of hearing the word ‘prick’ coming out of Molly’s mouth, but as it was he let it pass.    
  
Molly pressed her lips together and nodded, busying herself with her work.  They worked side by side in silence for about 15 minutes before Molly piped up.  

“You know,” she began, “Your neighbor Jamie is really nice.  I think she and I are becoming mates.” Molly smiled happily as she worked.

“You’ve spoken to her?” Sherlock whirled around to face Molly, startling her with his intensity.   
“Well, yeah,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.  “I met her that day I dropped the case files off at your flat, and we’ve gotten together a few times for lunch and things like that.  She’s met Toby!”    
  
Brow furrowed, Sherlock asked, “Who is Toby?”    
Molly looked momentarily hurt.  “My cat, Sherlock, don't you remember?  I talk about him all the time, look, he’s the wallpaper on my mobile!” She retrieved her phone from her lab coat and showed off the photo.  Biting back what felt like a million sarcastic quips, Sherlock asked as coolly as he could manage,  “When did you see Jamie last?”  

 

Molly smiled, pleased that she was engaging Sherlock in conversation.   
“Oh, last night.  She came round to my flat and we ordered a pizza, had a bit of a girls’ night, you know.”  
Sherlock sensed an angle.  Feigning interest as best as he could, he acted casual and said,   
“Ah, yes, ‘girls’ night. Watching a romantic comedy, eating pizza and having a few glasses of wine, getting a bit tipsy, no doubt,” he was baiting her for information.    
  
Completely unaware of Sherlock’s game, Molly shook her head innocently.    
“No, we didn't drink at all.  I rarely keep wine ‘round, I have a tendency to get too chatty when I’ve had a few drinks, not to mention the potential for a hangover on a work night and then I’ll-”   
“Yes, I can imagine,” Sherlock cut her off.  “Well, glad that is working out for you,” he dispassionately as he stepped off of the stool he’d been sitting in and strode out of the morgue, leaving Molly wondering in his wake.  

 

Sherlock walked several blocks before thinking of hailing a cab.  He’d hoped that Molly could have enlightened him as to whether or not Jaimie was drinking - it would have proved an invaluable clue as to whether or not she’d planned to continue the pregnancy.  As it was, he was still in the dark and that was a maddening situation indeed.   Looking at his mobile and realizing it was still far too early to bring home dinner, Sherlock kept walking to kill time.  

 

True to his word,  Sherlock arrived back at the flat at 6 PM on the dot, an armload of takeaway in hand.  Pleasantly surprised, and still more than a little suspicious about Sherlock’s motives, John ate gratefully and Sherlock did his best to be more magnanimous despite still feeling very uneasy about the Jamie situation.  

 

The next morning, Sherlock’s phone buzzed next to his ear.  Disentangling himself from the sheets, he stretched out a pale, lanky arm and grabbed it up, squinting to read the message he’d received.    
  
“I’m ready to talk. -Jamie”

Sherlock leapt from his bed and hastily put on clothes, scarcely bothering to acknowledge John as he sailed past on his way out the door.  He practically flew down the stairs to Jamie's door, not bothering to compose himself before knocking at the door to her flat.  After what felt like an eon, Jamie opened her door and regarded Sherlock coolly.    
“Come in,” she offered.    
He followed her down the stairs and took a seat across from her once she’d settled in to her couch.  He folded his hands in his lap, determined not to let her see that they were shaking.  He felt as though his future with John rested on this moment, this decision, and there was nothing more important in the world to him.

 

“I’ve been avoiding you on purpose,” Jaimie began.   
“You don’t say,” Sherlock responded coldly.  

“Did that upset you?” she asked, feigning innocence.  

“I scarcely noticed,” he said.   
“Liar,” she said with a wicked grin.

 

Unwilling to say anything further, Sherlock kept quiet.  

 

“So I’ve made my decision,” Jamie began, pausing to sip from a mug of tea on her coffee table.  Sherlock kept his poker face steadfast, and it took every ounce of effort he had.    
  
“I’m going to…” Jamie started, before noticing that Sherlock shifted forward in his seat, anticipating her words.  She grinned a cheshire grin and sat back, sipping tea again.    
“You know, I’m really enjoying drawing this out,” she taunted. “It’s kinda like Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and you’re on the hot seat, Sherlock.”  

 

“I’ve out-waited murderers and outlasted torture, I can wait for you,” Sherlock challenged.    
Eyebrow raised, Jamie said, “Touche.” 

“I won’t be cruel though,” she continued on.  “I’ve decided that I am going to have the baby.  By no means does that mean that you and I are okay, however.  You used me and manipulated me in the most cold, calculating way I could ever imagine, and I still hate you for that.  But there is someone else here now, and I’m not going to cut short his or her chance at life just because you’re an insensitive prick. “ She placed a protective hand over her belly, gesturing at the coffee table with her other hand.  

 

“Pick up the papers, Sherlock,” Jamie instructed.    
  
He did so, still scarcely daring to count on his good fortune.  He unfolded a small sheaf of papers which proved to be printouts from a local clinic.  

 

Van Buren, Jamie

 

West London Women’s Clinic

 

Enclosed please find your test results.

Blood and urine samples confirm a positive result for pregnancy.  Based upon the information you provided, along with hormone levels sampled, your estimated due date is early March.   This places you at roughly six weeks in to your first trimester.  The NHS recommends an ultrasound to be performed between weeks 12 and 18 of your pregnancy.  Please keep in touch with your medical provider to ensure proper prenatal care.  

 

Sherlock flipped through the other papers and found them to be printouts of the lab work, definitively confirming Jamie's pregnancy.  

 

As he put down the papers, he exhaled deeply.    
  
“Thank you,” He said, being sure to look into her eyes as he said it.

“I am sorry that I didn’t take your feelings into consideration, and I hope that one day you can come to forgive me.”    
  
“Well that’s a start,” Jamie said with a shrug, dismissive of Sherlock's show of humility.  Her guard was up, and it would be a very long time indeed before she trusted Sherlock Holmes again.    

 

“We still have a lot to talk about, you and I,” Jamie said.    
Before long, they were engrossed in conversation, debating the hows wheres and whens of her pregnancy and custody of the eventual child.  They agreed to sign papers to be held with a solicitor, but it was going to take a lot of compromise before they’d agree on the terms.  Some things were easy - Jamie accepted Sherlock’s offer of paying for any treatments which were not covered by the NHS, as well as anything she might need to purchase for the baby’s arrival.  She was not, however, willing to allow Sherlock and John to have full custody, at least not yet.    
  
“Why not?”  Sherlock demanded.   
“Well, first of all, you’re a freaking sociopath, and I haven’t even talked to John yet to find out how he feels about all this.  I think it’s only fair to get his input if I’m considering signing over a child to him!”  

“Oh now I’m a sociopath; I thought I was just antisocial!” Sherlock positively snarled.

Sherlock’s flash of temper was just a blind for his true feelings, however.  Inwardly, he was shaken at the reminder that... _he still had to break the news to John._

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confesses to John what he's done, and John's world stops making sense.

 

“Give me a couple of days to talk to John,” Sherlock implored. “You owe me no favors, but this is one thing I would greatly appreciate.”    
  
Jamie eyed him suspiciously.  After a moment of thought she narrowed her eyes at him and said,   
  
“He doesn’t know, does he?”    
  
“I had a plan.  It has taken some unforeseen detours, but there is a plan in place.  This can all still work, I just need time.”  

 

She put her head in her hands.  

 

“Why, Sherlock?  What is the point of this whole game you’ve been playing? Why…?”  She mumbled from between her hands.    
  
“It isn’t a game to me, Jamie.  It is so much more.  A way to...ensure happiness.”  

 

Elbows on her knees, Jamie dropped her hands from her face and stared at Sherlock intensely.  

 

“I’m going to be frank with you, Sherlock.  Considering everything that we are about to go through, you don’t get my politeness any more.  You get my honest opinion, no matter how ugly that might be.  And there’s one thing I need to make perfectly clear.”  She paused, ensuring she had his full attention, her eyes boring into his own.    
  
“You were alone once.  Desperately, completely alone.  You didn’t have to confess this to me because I know. I can tell this about you, Sherlock.  No one really got a foothold in that massive, cavernous brain of yours until John.  And for some Godforsaken reason that only makes sense inside your emotionally stunted, reptilian head, you decided on a course of action which you thought would ensure you’d never have to endure that loneliness again.  Well I hope that you’ve chosen wisely, Sherlock, for your sake.  Because if you haven’t, then you will feel that loneliness once again and it will crush you ten times as hard as it ever did the first time around.”    
  
Her tirade over, Jamie suddenly looked and felt quite exhausted.    
  
“Now go, Sherlock.  Get out of here.  Go figure out how you are going to start mopping up this mess and let me get some rest.”    
  
Deep in thought, Sherlock merely nodded his assent and slowly made his way up the stairs and out the door.  

 

~ 

 

Sherlock Holmes had been accused of being many things in his thirty-odd years.  Cowardly had never been one of them.  Still, it took nearly the full forty-eight hours he’d asked for from Jamie to work up the nerve to confess to John what he’d done.  But all the preparation in the world was for naught, as it couldn’t have made up for Sherlock’s three decades worth of social ineptitude.  

 

“Are you fond of our neighbor, John?” Sherlock tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible, as though he were dipping his toe casually into a conversation.  It was late afternoon and they’d been lounging together in the sitting room of their flat.    
John looked up from his paper.   
“I’m sorry, were we having a conversation that I wasn’t aware of?” He asked.  

“Just in general, John.  Do you...fancy her?” Sherlock probed.    
John scrunched his forehead, wondering where on Earth this line of questioning could be going.

“No, I wouldn’t say I fancy her, Sherlock.  I haven’t had much time for pulling the birds when a certain consulting detective keeps me running about across London all hours of the day and night.”  

 

“Ah. Good.” This was Sherlock’s only response.  He chose to ignore John’s gripe about their work.    
“Do I even want to know why?” John asked, exasperation on the edges of his voice.

“Well, I just thought that you should know she and I have procreated.”

There was a heavy, loaded silence in the room.   
“I’m sorry, Sherlock, my ears must be playing tricks, can you say that again?”    
“Jaimie. The woman in 221C. She is pregnant and I am the father.”

 

John felt icy cold and scorching hot all at the same time.  Unable to speak, his mouth gaped open for a moment.    
“Are you having me on?” He asked Sherlock.   
“No, John, I’m quite serious.”

“You’re not taking the piss?”    
“John, this is not something most people joke about.”

John was stunned, completely unable to speak or move.  When he did, his reaction couldn’t have been further from what Sherlock had been expecting.  

“Well, that’s just fucking great!” John exploded angrily, wadding up the section of the paper he’d been reading and stomping off to his room, slamming the door closed behind him.  

 

Inside his room, John’s head was spinning.  He hadn’t felt this combination of dizziness, shock and sick since he’d been wounded in Afghanistan. At least when he’d been in the war, there was a bloody great bullet in his shoulder that he could point to as the source of his shock and confusion.  Here? He had no idea what was here.  He just knew that his flatmate had gone and gotten some woman he barely knew - _their neighbor_ \- pregnant.  What the fuck was Sherlock thinking?  

 

“Wait, does this mean that Sherlock’s not gay? What does this say about me?  Christ, will I have to find a new flat?” The thoughts were barreling through John at lightning speed.    
“I mean come on, after all we have been through together, and the way I feel-” John’s thoughts stopped dead.    
“Oh God,” he muttered under his breath.  That’s what this was about.  This whole fit of rage and disbelief, the storming off- it was all jealousy.  Face gone pale, John realized what it was about the whole idiotic scenario that made his head spin the most - someone else had been with Sherlock.  His Sherlock.  The man he’d come to love deeply despite having never done so much as kissing his cheek.  Someone else - a woman, no less, and not even _The Woman_ , snogging Sherlock, touching him intimately, feeling him inside her...

 

“Fuck.” John swore and sat down hard on the edge of his bed.  Somewhere in the course of the last three years he’d gone and fallen in love with Sherlock - there’d always been an admiration there, certainly, and a bit of awe at the way Sherlock could see through even the most elaborate ruse.  But love? Where the bloody hell did that come from?  If he’d trusted his legs enough to support himself, he might have stumbled to the bathroom to be sick.  Captain John Watson, most heterosexual man on the planet...was in love with a bloke.  His head spun and his heart pounded; there was sweat on his brow.  He had no concept of how long he sat there, trying to sort through the newly uncovered feelings that were tumbling in his head, but before too long, John heard the sound of feet on the steps - slender, nimble feet, and legs that were taking the stairs two and three at a time.  

 

Sherlock stood on the other side of the door and warned,   
“John, I’m coming in.”  There was no response from inside the room, and Sherlock burst open the door to see John sitting on the edge of his bed, looking pale and pitiful, head in his hands.  Sherlock came over and knelt on the hardwood floor before John, pulling John’s hands away from his face.    
  
“John, I don’t understand.  Why is this so upsetting for you?” John couldn’t bring himself to meet Sherlock’s eyes.  

 

“I hope you two are very happy together,” John mumbled.   
  
Sherlock sighed.   
“Honestly John, what in God’s name are you talking about?”    
John looked up and noticed that there was something different about Sherlock’s eyes.  Where before John had seen nothing but calmness, correctness and composure, now there was fear, insecurity, doubt and - care?

 

“You and Jamie?  Your relationship?  I mean, that’s the logical thing to think considering that you’ve gone and got her up the duff,” John said, with no small amount of bitterness.  

 

“But John,” said Sherlock, still gripping tight to John’s hands, “I did this for you.”  

John was baffled beyond the ability for reason.  

“What the fuck kind of sick joke is that supposed to be?” John demanded.  

“In three years, John, have you known me to joke?”    
  
John admitted that it was out of character for Sherlock but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the reality.  

 

“I am so confused,” John mumbled pitifully from between his hands.  

 

“John,” Sherlock started, “Since you have been my flatmate I have come to...rely upon you a great deal.  You find a way to amplify my abilities, you serve as an invaluable link between myself and the people we encounter in our work.  I simply deduced, from what I know about you, that one day you would leave.  You would follow your desire for a family and that would take you away from me.  I couldn’t let that happen, John.  So it stood to reason that if I never wanted you to leave me, I would have to bring everything you want in life here, to Baker Street.  I purposely impregnated Jamie so that we’d have a child to raise together, John.”  

 

John kneaded his forehead for several moments before looking up at Sherlock.  Instead of the grateful expression Sherlock had thought he would face, there was a steely anger in John’s eyes, and his lips were set in a firm, hard line.  

 

“Let me get this straight,” said John slowly, seething inside and barely able to keep his voice below a shout. “You tell me you need me, that you don’t want me going off and chasing happiness because it might interfere with your work?  And then, to make matters worse, you bring someone else into your mad scheme, not to mention an innocent _baby_?” John was positively quaking with rage.    
  
Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet as he knelt there on the floor, still looking up at John on the edge of the bed.  He bent his head downward, his curly hair obscuring his eyes, and spoke softly after a few moments.    
  
“I wanted to bring you the happiness here, John.  I wanted you to be as happy, as complete as I am when I am with you.”  

 

It was a simple statement, on the surface, but it was the first indication that Sherlock had ever given that John was anything more than a friend, a trusted colleague.  

 

“You can’t play God with people’s lives, Sherlock.  You can’t just wave a magic fucking wand and have everything turn out the way you want it to.  People are complicated, far more complicated than you give them credit for, and they don’t want you figuring out their lives for them!”  

Sherlock remained silent, staring down at the floor.  John tried to compose himself, trying to untangle all the new information he’d been bombarded with.  He realized that there was a critical piece of information still missing and he queried Sherlock harshly.    
“Oy - so was Jaimie in on this?  Did she know what you were doing?  Hell, Sherlock, I didn’t even realize that you fancied women.  Of course, I’ve never seen you with men either, but…” John trailed off, not knowing how to finish his sentence.    
  
Finally, Sherlock brought his gaze up from the floor and again looked into John’s eyes.  John softened, slightly, when he saw the vulnerability that Sherlock was allowing him to see there.  

 

“She had no idea what I was after,” Sherlock confessed.  “I spent two months getting to know her, finding out what made her tick, and convinced her to go to bed with me, casually.  No promises of a relationship, just casual sex.  Of course, I had done the calculations and I was certain she was ovulating.  Using techniques I’d researched online, I made certain that she would be far too distracted to require that I use a condom.”    
  
“Jesus fucking Christ Sherlock, you can’t just go around having unprotected sex with someone you barely know!  Who knows what sort of diseases she has!”  John was slightly pale.    
  
“She’s clean, John. And so am I, for that matter.”  Sherlock said imperiously.    
“Even you couldn’t deduce what sort of sexually transmitted diseases someone does or doesn’t have!”    
  
Sherlock scoffed.    
“Of course not, John, think. A month after she moved in we had her here for tea.  What happened then?”    
  
John tried to think back.  It was hard to remember who he’d had tea with several months ago...wait!  His eyes flew open with the recollection.  Jamie had been down to the shops and picked up milk for them.  When she delivered it, John remembered being slightly put out when Sherlock told Jamie to sit, and he then volunteered John to make them all a cup of tea.  What was even stranger was when Sherlock leapt from his chair and raced into the kitchen to help John select cups and saucers.  Sherlock pushed a certain cup toward John and said, “She’ll take her tea in this cup.”  John hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just chalked it up to the oddness that was Sherlock.  

 

John had been horrified when that cup, filled with boiling hot water, had cracked in her hands and the jagged remains of the handle sliced across her thumb.  Come to think of it, Sherlock had been especially accommodating when it came to cleaning up and dressing her wound...

John gave a resigned sigh and rested his forehead on his fingertips, massaging the deep lines that had appeared there.

“You got a blood sample when she cut herself on that cup.  You did something to ensure that the cup would come apart in her hands, and you tested the blood when it cut her.” He accused.    
  
“Brilliant John, well deduced!”  Sherlock looked genuinely pleased for a moment, then sobered when he noticed that John was still very, very cross.  

 

“Sherlock, she could have been hurt very badly!  I can’t...I can’t even begin to say how unethical it is to hurt someone purposely, and then test their blood without their consent, you fucking lunatic!”

 

“I had to improvise,” Sherlock said with a shrug.  

 

John shook his head in disbelief.  

“It’s like arguing with a child!” John exploded frustratedly.    
  
“Believe me,” Sherlock began, “Any insults that you have to sling at me have already been covered thoroughly by Jamie.”    
  
Much to Sherlock’s surprise, John’s stern expression faded a bit and he gave the barest hint of a smile.    
  
“Something amusing?”  Sherlock asked.    
“The thought of her verbally abusing you _is_ quite satisfying, yeah.”  John admitted.  Realizing that his mood was softening, he steeled himself again and shook his head, nostrils flared.    
  
“I can scarcely tell up from down right now,” John mused aloud.  “This entire fucking situation has got me questioning everything about who I am and what I do and it’s going to take time to sort out.  In the meantime, I can’t be here.”  Sherlock swiftly reached out with both hands, holding John’s wrists, pleading wordlessly with him not to go.    
  
“Don’t...just don’t, Sherlock.”  John looked away from his friend and flatmate.  They sat there in silence for a time, John sitting on the edge of the bed and Sherlock awkwardly sitting in a heap at his feet on the floor, still holding John’s wrists in his long, pale fingers.  

 

“I...am going to pack a bag now.”  John finally spoke, his voice quiet and resigned yet stern enough to indicate he wouldn’t be argued with.    
“I don’t know what is going to happen once I walk out the door, Sherlock.  I don’t know how long I will be gone, I don’t know for certain that I will be back.  I need you to know this.”    
  
Sherlock finally lifted his gaze from the floor and almost caused John to do a double-take.  Moisture rimmed Sherlock’s blue green eyes and reflected the look of a broken man.  Saying nothing, Sherlock loosened his grip on John’s wrists, letting his hands slide to the floor.  A shard of pity knifed John in the heart but he was steadfast.  He had to get away from Sherlock if he was going to make sense of any of this.  John stood and began collecting things in a duffle, and Sherlock picked himself up off of the bedroom floor and wordlessly made his way down the stairs.  

 

When John made his way down to the sitting room, Sherlock was huddled into a ball on the sofa, facing the wall.    
  
“I’ll, uh, be going now, Sherlock.”    
  
There was no response.  

  
John closed his eyes, composed himself, and walked out the door of 221B, genuinely uncertain if he would ever cross that threshold again.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Jamie in anger. Nothing good comes of it.

Something can happen when a person you love the most hurts you.  It’s too painful to consider that the person we’ve pinned our hopes and dreams on is fallible, so we find somewhere external to place our hurt.   
  
In this case, on this day, John Watson had been betrayed by his best friend, and all he had to do was walk down the stairs of his flat to find someone to pin his grief on.  

Feeling far too upside-down to rationalize what he was about to do, John rapped on the door to flat C.    
  
Jamie answered the door and took a deep breath when she saw who’d come knocking.  Taking a glance at the duffel bag that was in his hand, she assumed that he and Sherlock had a talk and that it did not go well.  

 

“Do you want to come in?”  She asked.    
  
“I’m...I’m not sure,” John replied honestly.    
  
There was an awkward silence between them as they both worked up the courage to say what must be said.   Jamie swallowed, willing herself to speak, when John cut the silence first.  

 

“How long?” He said, resignedly.   
  
“Hm?” She asked.   
  
“How far along are you, Jamie?” John’s voice sounded quite hollow.    
  
“About six weeks, roughly.”    
  
John let the information sink in.  He tried to recall what had been happening six weeks prior.  He had a vague recollection that Sherlock had been gone quite a bit, but he’d paid it little mind.  It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to dash off at all hours of the day or night with little warning or explanation, and Mycroft’s almost certain surveillance kept John from worrying about his whereabouts overmuch..  

 

“I suppose that’s where he was spending his time,” John paused. “With you?”    
  
Jamie nodded slowly.   
  
“Yeah, he’s my - well, he _was_ my friend.  He came to my apartment all the time and would listen as I talked about everything-about London, about the university, about fitting in here, about missing my friends back home…”

 

“You honestly thought that a sociopath could be your friend?  Perhaps you’re not the clever psychologist you’ve been made out to be,” John suggested bitterly.  “There’s just one thing I don’t get, though.  Why wouldn’t a PhD candidate with three degrees didn’t insist on using protection?”

“I suppose I had that coming,” Jamie responded softly.  

 

John still felt devastatingly backwards.  Everything he thought he’d known about his life, his flatmate, even his sexuality had been turned upside down in the span of hours and he had no idea how to right himself.  His dislike for not knowing where he stood was causing him to lash out at the perceived threat, the one person whose presence tossed everything into a turmoil: Jamie.

 

“What were you thinking?” John practically demanded an answer through his tone of voice.    
“Don’t tell me you haven’t made stupid decisions in the heat of passion, John,” Jamie said in a subdued voice.  

 

John never would have admitted it, but the memory of him flinging himself onto James Moriarty’s back while rigged up to enough explosives to level a city block flashed before his mind’s eye.  He was far, far too upset to admit any faults, however.  

 

“I’ve never fucked a sociopath without a condom before, if that’s what you’re meaning.”  John hated the taste of his words as soon as they rolled off his tongue but he was reveling in it now, enjoying bubbling in his anger like a hot spring.  

 

A lightning-flash of fury crossed Jamie’s eyes and she countered.   
  
“Maybe if you had, he wouldn’t have been crawling around my place.”  Her very posture changed, challenging John.    
  
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He practically roared back.  

 

“Just give it up, 'Captain straight-acting'.” Jamie said, voice full of venom and sarcasm.  

 

“So that’s what this is about.  You think that Sherlock and I are together?”    
  
“It certainly seems that way, at least in Sherlock’s mind.”   
  
“So if you thought we were together, why did you fuck him, for God’s sake?” John was shouting now.    
All she could do was give a half hearted shrug.

“He assured me that you two were just friends.  Apparently that was a lie.”    
“NO, it was NOT a lie!”  John roared.    
  
Her eyes wide, Jamie could only look at John in amazement for a moment while she collected her thoughts.    
  
“Then why does it matter so much where he goes at night and who he fucks?” Her eyes narrowed as she spoke and leaned forward aggressively.  

 

John’s face turned ashen; he was speechless.

 

“I thought so,” she snorted. “You’re welcome to come back to talk once you’ve got yourself sorted,”  Jamie said with finality.  “I didn’t ask for this either, but I am owning up to it and sticking by my decision.  When you make a choice, will you be able to live with your decision as well?”    
  
She silently began pressing the door closed, and as John stood there, for the briefest of moments, he wished he was back in Afghanistan once more. At least there, it was patently obvious who was an enemy and who was a friend.  

  
‘“Ask yourself this, John,” Jamie said before disappearing back into her flat, “Are you willing to admit that Sherlock might know more about your own heart than you do?” With that she closed the door and he turned away, still not sure where to go or what to do.  


	10. Chapter 10

Talking to John had been deeply uncomfortable for Jamie, but she had expected some sort of confrontation at one point or another.  She sighed and sat back down on her couch, deciding she may as well get all of the awkward conversations out of the way in one day.  She pulled out her mobile and texted Molly.    
  
Heya Moll, can you stop by after work?  -jamie

Sure, sounds fun! :-) Molly

 

Jamie plodded into the bathroom, turning on a hot steamy shower.  It would be a couple hours yet before Molly arrived, and she wanted to feel as prepared as possible before she confessed her sins to the sweet, sweet girl she was quickly falling head over heels for.    
  
Right on time, Molly knocked at the door and Jamie greeted her, the scent of Italian food wafting from within the flat.    
  
“Hello, luv!” Molly said cheerfully, sniffing the air. “Get a takeout?”    
“No,” Jamie responded.  “Just whipped up a quick spaghetti, if you want to have dinner with me.”

Molly happily agreed and Jamie was more than happy to let her do the talking as they ate, never once interrupting Molly’s stream-of-consciousness chatter.

With dinner managed, they flopped down in the sitting room companionably, where Jamie nervously looked at Molly. She appreciated the subtle highlights in her hair that were being reflected by the firelight, and hoped that this would not be the last time she had the chance to have a good long look at Molly.   

 

“I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things, Molly, and I thought it would be best if I got it all out in the open in one go.”    
Molly smiled, always eager to offer an understanding shoulder when a friend needed to talk.  Truthfully, it was so rare that someone thought highly enough of her to confide in her that she felt quite chuffed indeed to be Jamie’s confidant.    
  
“Of course, anything” Molly said generously.  

Jamie nodded.  “Right,” she thought to herself, “What do I tell her first?  Do I tell her that I think she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, or do I tell her that I’m pregnant with Sherlock’s baby?  Either one is bound to have some dire consequences…”  She took a deep breath.   
  
“Molly,” she began shakily, “I know we’ve talked before, about our pasts and things like that, and you know that I’ve dated men _and_ women, right?”    
Molly nodded.   
“Well, I just wanted you to know that I’ve loved getting to know you, and being your friend, and...I thought you should know that I like you.  I _really_ like you,” Jaimie emphasized.    
  
Brow furrowed, Molly failed to understand.   
“Molly, I am very attracted to you,” Jaimie confessed.  “Honestly, ever since the first day I met you I thought you were one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen, with your hair and your eyes and your smile and the way you are so, so infinitely kind to everyone around you...I hope to God this doesn’t ruin our friendship, but I had to tell you, I had to get it out.”  
  
Jaimie sat back and waited for Molly’s response.  Her face had gone quite pale, and it was obvious she was trying to work through the ramifications of what she’d just been told.    
  
“So…” Molly spoke slowly and looked slightly hurt, “Were you just being my friend because you fancied me?”    
“No, Molly, of course not.  It’s so much more than that.  If all we can ever be is friends then I will be happy, and I will never bring this up again, I swear.  I love being with you, you’ve swiftly become my best friend, and that means so much to me, being a stranger in this country with no family and precious few friends.  I just couldn’t hide what was going on any longer.  And if you need to think about all this, I-”   
  
“But,” Molly said, brow still furrowed as she shook her head. “I’m not gay.  I mean, I’m not a girl who’s been around very much, but I have dated, and I have been...with men.   _Just_ men,” she emphasized.      
  
Jamie nodded solemnly.  “I know, Moll.  And I have struggled with telling you this for a long time because I knew that about you.”    
  
“I...I don’t know what to do with this, I need to think before I can say anything” Molly said, confusion and pain written all over her face.    
  
Jamie sighed.    
“I never, ever wanted to hurt you, Molly.  But there’s something else that I want to tell you that is going to be an enormous shock.  Can you handle that right now, or does it need to wait?”    
  
“Can I have a drink?”  Molly asked suddenly.    
“Of course,” Jamie responded. she walked into the kitchen and found the remains of a bottle of vodka, to which she added a generous portion of orange juice before mixing it all together in a tall glass and handing it to Molly.  She took two healthy gulps before setting it down with a thud.    
  
“Okay, what else do you need to tell me?”  Molly said, the alcohol bringing a flush to her cheeks almost instantly.    
  
“Well Moll, Sherlock and I...we had a fling.  I know you used to have a crush on him, and-”   
Molly’s face went a little gray.   
“What do you mean, a fling?” She asked, in a calculated voice, her pretty lips cast downward into a pout.    
“Well, he came to my flat one night saying all the right things, and...we slept together.  It was a one time only thing,” Jaimie emphasized.    
  
Molly spoke quickly now, the alcohol and her emotions loosening her polite inhibitions.  “So you’re telling me that not only do you have a crush on me, you’ve slept with someone I had a crush on for years?”  Molly was near tears with her confusion.  

“Well, yes, and it’s not just that Moll...I’m pregnant.”

Molly’s mouth opened and closed without making a sound.   
“And yes, it is Sherlock’s.”  Jamie sighed resignedly.  

 

Molly boggled for a moment, having no idea how to respond.  She finally grabbed her glass and downed the last of her drink before pounding it down onto the table before her.    
  
“I have to go,” Molly said with finality.    
“I’m sorry, Molly, I’m so sorry - can we talk about this, sometime?”    
Molly shook as she grabbed her bag and headed for the door.    
“I--I just don’t know right now,” she said, her eyes filled with tears.    
  
Jamie felt miserable, and watched Molly go with a great deal of sadness.  She felt so confused, frustrated and out of control...all she knew to do was cry and that is what she did, crying into the cushions of her sofa until she drifted off into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep.  

 

Molly didn’t fare much better that night.  During her cab ride home, her thoughts spun wildly.  If she hadn’t known for sure that she was awake, she would have sworn that she was in some sort of cruel, twisted dream world.  Her first real, new friend in a very long time was a lesbian who fancied her- no, not a lesbian, not really, considering that she had shagged Sherlock!  Perhaps that is what shocked Molly the most.  Once John had been on the scene for a while, Molly’s crush on Sherlock subsided dramatically.  She saw the way that Sherlock looked at him, and the way in which the two men fit together in a perfect team.  She felt convinced, although she’d never really seen any solid proof, that Sherlock and John must be in a relationship with one another.  The fact that she’d never seen them kiss or touch just meant that they were consummate professionals, and that they would never let their personal life interfere with their work.  

 

Molly convinced herself that Sherlock had never responded to her advances because he was gay, and that had been a soothing thought to her in many ways.  But now, to know that he’d been intimate with a woman - and not just any woman, but one of Molly’s best friends - her grasp on what was real and what was not was slipping fast and she did not like it one bit.  She walked up the stairs to her lonely, tiny flat and collapsed on her bed, sobbing and letting Toby curl up next to her, the longhaired tomcat not really understanding what was happening but trying to make her feel better with his presence just the same.  

 

Molly awoke the next morning, still in her clothes and feeling fuzzy headed.  Much to her dismay, nothing still made any sense at all.  She stumbled to her bathroom and scrutinized herself in the mirror.  It was clear from her puffy eyes and swollen cheeks that she’d cried herself to sleep the night before.  She pushed aside the pink floral shower curtain and stepped into the tub, hoping that a long shower would help untangle her brain.  

 

“What would someone else do in my position?”  She asked herself.  She’d nearly always been awkward and painfully shy, ever since she was a little girl.  Her friends were few and far between, and she’d found herself the subject of the other little girls’ ridicule more often than not.  She’d had a good childhood, loving parents and two happy siblings, but she’d just never felt as though she fit.  As the hot water poured over her shoulders, she recalled the final time that she’d tried her hardest to fit in.

  
A sophomore in high school, she’d discovered the gothic kids who she’d felt certain would welcome her.   Sure, she didn’t dress like them, but their fixation with death certainly meant that she’d have something in common with them.  

 

They accepted her at first, albeit cautiously.  But soon they were being put off when she talked about stages of decomposition and autopsy procedure, and she became disillusioned when she discovered they were more interested in angry music and whinging about their parents than human anatomy.  Depressed and once again convinced that she belonged nowhere, she kept to herself and made precious few friends throughout the rest of her school years.  

 

Molly was a senior in high school before she kissed a boy for the first time. He’d been an exchange student from Germany who hadn’t minded her oddness.  Their fledgling relationship never got a chance to take off though, seeing as he’d flown back home to Frankfurt only two weeks later.  

 

Once she’d gone off to uni she’d had a couple more flings, even lost her virginity to a quiet, awkward boy from the school’s IT department.  By the time she stood there, a woman of nearly thirty, she’d slept with five different men, and had many first dates. It was the second dates that never seemed to work out in her favor.  She was cheerful though, for the most part. She had two or three good girlfriends who she’d meet up with from time to time, and her mum would call once a week for a chat, and her siblings would email her now and then.  It was a happy life, albeit she was certainly lonely sometimes.  She thought she’d wanted to find a man to settle down with, but with her thirties swiftly approaching, she was believing that to be something farther and farther out of her reach.    
  
Why then, she kept asking herself, did the person who was the most interested in her in more than a year have to be a woman?  And not just any woman, one of her closest friends.  She guessed that, at least on some level, the attraction was flattering, and she’d certainly been able to appreciate that Jamie was pretty, she just wasn’t certain that being with a woman was something she could get attracted to.    
  
Besides, she thought as her stomach sank to the floor, Jamie had been with Sherlock.  How could Molly ever compete with that?  If Molly’s fantasies even came close to the reality of what it was like to make love to Sherlock, there was no competition.  Plus Jamie was pregnant as well - just when Molly had started to feel as though her world was making sense again it got turned over like an hourglass.  

 

Even if this was a world in which Molly Hooper could find herself attracted to a woman, she just didn’t think she was prepared to dabble in bisexuality with someone who’d slept with, and was pregnant by, one of her oldest crushes.  Even though that ship had sailed, she was having such a hard time coping with the concept of Jamie and Sherlock being intimate - what about John?  Weren’t he and Sherlock together?  What was John going through at a time like this?    
  
Even though John had never felt like an especially close friend to Molly, she decided to phone him up after her shower.  

  
“John?  Yeah, um, hi, it’s Molly.  I was wondering if you’d like to have a chat, I just thought maybe we could talk about things…”    
  
“Let me guess, you know about the baby.”    
  
“Well yes, and I just thought that maybe you’d want to talk and maybe sort things out and I could certainly use someone to talk to because I’m feeling rather-”    
  
“Molly, there’s nothing to talk about.  Sherlock and I are not a couple, for the one millionth time.  I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, its not like he could have cheated on me when we arent even together!" John growled into the phone and disconnected the phone before she could speak.  “But what if I needed a shoulder to cry on?” she asked out loud, to no one in particular, tears spilling down her cheeks.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to sort out his feelings and Greg hints that he knows more about the Holmes men than he's ever admitted.

Soon after he marched his way out of 221 Baker Street, John found himself unsure of where to go. If he didn’t feel that he could rely on his sister after coming back from a war, he certainly didn’t feel he could go to her now. Stamford lived far enough away that the commute to the clinic would be hellishly long, and-  
John’s mind screeched to a halt. The clinic. Sarah. He smoothed his hair and headed for the clinic, hopeful that Sarah would be amenable to him using her couch for a couple of days while he sorted things out.  
He arrived to the clinic and put on his most beguiling smile as he rapped at Sarah’s office door. 

“Hello, Sarah!” John said as cheerily as he could.  
Sarah raised an eyebrow suspiciously.  
“What do you want?”  
“What? I can’t just pop in and say hello to a colleague?” John’s face was a mask of innocence.  
“With an overnight bag?” She asked.  
“Ah. That. Yes.” John took a deep breath to speak but Sarah cut him off.  
“Boyfriend throw you out then?”  
“He’s not my-” John started to protest, his hands balled into fists.  
“Save it, John.” Sarah commanded. “You can have the sofa for two nights, no more.”  
“Thank you,” he slumped with relief.  
“But you owe me,” she said. “The next two times I call you needing you to cover a shift for me, no excuses, no complaints, you are here as long as I need you.”  
“Done,” John said with a relieved and grateful grin.  
“Which one of your exes was it, John, that said you were a great boyfriend - to Sherlock? Whoever she was, I agree with her.”  
All John could do in response was examine his shoes.

He went to Sarah’s place with her that night and barely slept. The uncomfortable sofa was nothing compared to the uncomfortable thoughts that were swirling through his mind.

Not entirely unexpectedly, Sherlock texted John constantly.  
Where are you? - SH  
New case, lovely murder! - SH  
Boring. Household accident. -SH  
Angelo’s for dinner? -SH

Sherlock filled up John’s inbox two times over, and John purposely ignored each and every message. He read them, read each of them intently looking for hidden meanings or apologies, but he never responded to a single one.  
Finally, two days after he’d left his flat on Baker Street, John caved when he saw that Greg Lestrade had texted him. 

Call me when you get this? -Lestrade  
Concern, and guilt that Sherlock may have dragged Greg into all of this spurred John to make a visit to the detective inspector.  
John found him behind his desk, sighing into paperwork and clumsily typing. 

“‘Lo, Greg,” John said softly, rapping at the door to get his attention. 

“Ah! John!” Lestrade looked almost too excited to toss aside the paperwork he’d been laboring over. 

Greg scrutinized John and asked without pleasantries, 

“So what’s he done?” 

“Hm?” John raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders before crossing the room and taking a seat in the chair opposite Lestrade. 

“Sherlock. He’s been practically frantic looking for you, demanding to know if I’ve seen you practically on the hour.” 

John sighed and massaged his temples. 

“Sorry he’s been a bother, Greg. Did he...say why I’d gone off?” John was dreading having to explain the situation to Lestrade, and was relieved when the man showed no sign of knowing why John and Sherlock were having a row.  
“No,” said Greg, pensively. “And honestly? I don’t want to know. But I figure it’s got to have been something big, something really catastrophic for you to leave for two days and not tell him where you are.” 

Fending off the guilty look which crossed John’s face, Lestrade continued. 

“Don’t get me wrong man, I don’t know how you’ve coped with it for this long. Sherlock didn’t say you’d rowed, but it doesn’t take a DI to put it together. Honestly I’m shocked it took this long, after what Sherlock’s done.”

John went slightly pale, not knowing what Lestrade meant. 

“He’s performed experiments on you, tried to poison you, gotten you an ASBO and that’s just the stuff that’s off the top of my head,” Greg rambled. “A lesser man than you, John Watson, wouldn’t have lasted 30 days.” 

“Thanks mate,” John said genuinely. 

“So whatever it is that Sherlock’s done this time, the fact that it was enough to make a man who has been to war turn tail and leave, well, I can’t begin to imagine what he must’ve done.” “Look, John...whatever has happened between the two of you, how bad can it be, really? After everything that you two have seen together…”

At a loss for how to explain everything succinctly to Greg, John said all that he was able. 

“Well, I guess you could say that Sherlock...let me know that he wanted more than just friendship from me.”

“Christ,” Greg hissed between his teeth before clapping a hand over his mouth and looking apologetic.  
“Sorry mate,” he said. “But...if we’re going to be totally honest here John, and that’s the kind of man you seem to be to me, well...I’m not entirely surprised.” 

“What, did you know something?” John demanded. “Did you know, Greg, that he’s ga- well, interested in men?” 

Lestrade got up and closed the door to his office.  
“It was quite a few years ago now, before Sherlock got shipped off to rehab. There was a guy, blond, taller than you, name was Lance or Lawrence, something like that. Nice enough bloke.” 

John was taken aback.  
“And Sherlock, and this guy...dated?”  
“Well, as close as you can get to calling something with Sherlock a normal relationship, yeah,” Greg admitted.  
“What happened?” John was leaning forward in his chair now, rapt at the idea of getting to know more about Sherlock’s personal life.  
“Well, that’s not for me to say,” Greg continued. “But suffice it to say that out of the blue Lance got offered the job of a lifetime in Australia and moved there straight away. It wasn’t two months later, I wouldn’t say, that Sherlock ended up in court-ordered rehab.” 

John sat back, letting this new information sink in.  
“Also not my place to ask, not really,” Greg said hesitantly, “But how do you feel? I know you’re more for chasing the birds, but...how did his confession make you feel?” 

“Greg,” John sighed frustratedly, “You know what it’s like, you grow up knowing what you like and what you don’t, and your mates tease about being gay or whatever and you just, you do what’s expected, right? I honestly never thought that there was anything more to it than that, you’re like me, you’re straight, you understand what I am talking about. 

Greg got pensive for a moment, his eyes gazing somewhere that looked very far away indeed.  
“What if I told you, John, that sometimes...we’re not as black and white as we seem? That sometimes you can think that you are one way all of your life and then something comes along and hits you over the head and it seems so obvious in hindsight, but at the time you just can’t imagine that your life could ever stray from the safe, common path you're expected to march along…” 

“What are you saying?” John asked, slightly pale. 

“What I’m saying is this,” Greg said with a sigh. “What do people write songs about? Love. What are movies and books and poems written about? Love. It’s the universal thing, each and every one of us on this planet is searching for someone to love and who will love us in return. And if that love shows up on our doorstep, or, even, in our flat one day, unannounced, are we going to turn our backs on that love just because it doesn’t come wrapped in the package that we expected it to?” 

John’s eyes flicked back and forth as he let this all sink in. 

“Greg, are you…?”

“We’re talking about you here, John.” He interrupted.  
“I’ll say that someone has recently come into my life who has made me change the way I’ve thought about...everything. Here I am, a man in my 40s, and all my preconceived notions of what is and what isn’t have been dumped over for me to sift through again. And I daresay that the same thing is happening to you, John. So look inside yourself, deep down at your most honest, and ask yourself: Do you love him back?” 

John’s face went slack and he could feel the blood in his hands run cold. He drew a shaky breath and was silent, convinced that the sound of his heartbeat was thumping louder than the clock on the wall. 

Minutes that felt like hours passed, and John finally spoke, in a small, timid voice that scarcely felt like his own.  
“I must do…”  
“How could I though?” John asked, rhetorically. “Then again, how could I not? It must be, why else would I do...everything I do…”

Greg leaned against his desk, arms folded, looking down at John knowingly. John was a good man, Greg knew this. He knew he’d come around, it was just going to take time. Time and a whole lot of patience.  
“If there’s one thing I know about Holmes men,” Greg thought to himself, “it’s that dealing with them takes the patience of bloody Job.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcroft Holmes has a chat with John and reveals why Sherlock resents him so deeply...

John thanked Greg and left Scotland Yard.  For a block or two, he was too focused on his inner monologue to notice that he was being followed by a posh black car with impermeably tinted windows.  A honk of the horn woke John from his reverie, and he rolled his eyes when he looked up and recognized the car.    
“Bugger,” he cursed under his breath, opening the back door and climbing in.   
  
“John, so nice of you to visit,” Mycroft said smugly, a smirk playing at his lips.    
“Mycroft,” John sighed.  “I’m guessing this is about Sherlock?”  

Mycroft blinked twice and responded, his entire being dripping with sarcasm.   
“My my, and here I’d been led to believe that there’s only _one_ consulting detective in the world.  Keep up those sharp deductions, Doctor Watson, and there’ll certainly be two.”  

 

“Very nice,” John replied impatiently. “If Downing Street ever has an open-mic night, you’ll definitely win the comedy portion.”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips and ignored John’s retort.  

 

“You’ve been away from Baker Street for a couple of days, John, is there something amiss?”

“Surveillance not what it used to be, Mycroft?  There was once a time you could tell me what went on inside my flat better than I could.”

 

“Just giving you the opportunity to explain to me what is going on,” Mycroft said, his eyes turning icy.  

John shrugged. “Sherlock was being a tit, we had a row, I slept at a friends’ for a couple nights, nothing more and nothing less.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he let this information sink in.  

 

“Are you aware, John, that Sherlock once had someone...significant in his life?”

“I’ve, uh, recently been made aware, yeah.”

“I trust you, John.  As much as a man in my position can trust someone, which is to say, not very much.  But it is more than none.  As such, I am going to tell you something that is in the strictest confidence.”   
  
His throat gone dry, all John could do was nod in response.    
  
“His name was Lance, he was a nice enough young man, quite boring though, never understood what Sherlock saw in him.  I had him investigated thoroughly of course, and found nothing untoward.  When it became clear that Sherlock intended for Lance to be a part of his life for the long term, I took it upon myself to have a chat with the young man.”    
  
John’s forehead crinkled.  He’d been summoned for more of Mycroft’s ‘chats’ than he cared to recall, and he knew just how intimidating they could be.  

 

“Unfortunately, I’d misjudged the strength of young Lance’s character.  By the time he’d been brought round to a charming abandoned lot I rather enjoy using for my private chats, he was shaking like a frightened child.”

 

Mycroft gazed out the window for a moment, sighing before returning his attention to John.    
  
“It was my intent to protect my young brother, to let this young man Sherlock fancied know that, should he break my brother’s heart, the consequences would be... _dire_.”   
  
John winced.   
  
“Lance was so driven by his fear, he couldn’t listen to reason.  He thought I was a terrorist or a blackmailer, and that I’d kidnapped him with intent to warn him away from Sherlock.  Lance had plenty of passion but no backbone.  Within a fortnight of my speaking to him, he’d emigrated to Australia.”

John shook his head once the information had sunk in, and stared at Mycroft accusingly.

“This all makes so much more sense now.  You two don’t bicker because of petty childhood rubbish, you bicker because you, Mycroft, drove away the only man Sherlock Holmes ever loved.”    
  
“ _Only_ , Doctor Watson?” Mycroft gave him a pointed look.    
John’s nostrils flared and he went slightly pale.  

 

“I knew, when I met you, that I had no need to fear the same thing happening.  You rose to the challenge rather well and I’d imagined, given your heterosexual predilections, that no such warnings about broken hearts would apply.  At the very, very least, you didn’t soil yourself in fear the way young Lance had done.  I knew that you were made of harder stuff, that you could handle life with Sherlock Holmes.”  

 

John rested his chin in his hand and watched the scenery go by for a couple of blocks.  

“So, this Lance,” he began, not sure he wanted to know the answer, “Did he really go to Australia?  Or is that some sort of code for you throwing him in the Thames wearing cement wellies?”   
  
The tiniest flicker of a smirk crossed Mycroft’s lips.    
  
“Suspicious, Doctor?  You needn’t be.  Lance truly did leave, of his own volition.  He works at an art gallery in Sydney and remains, to this day, healthy and very much alive.  He’s an artist, with an artist’s temperament and, unfortunately, an artist’s sense of imagination.  He felt his life was in danger if he remained with my brother and broke things off rather...suddenly.”  

John’s face grew pained.   
“And Sherlock...he took it badly, didn’t he?”  

  
“Regrettably.”  Mycroft concurred.  “He took to every illicit substance London had to offer in an attempt to blot out the pain.  Within six weeks he’d been incarcerated and sentenced to a drug treatment program that even I couldn’t get him out of.”    
  
Disbelieving, John shot Mycroft a suspicious glance.    
  
“Well, I _say_ I couldn’t get him out of it,” Mycroft confessed with a wave of his hand.  “It was in Sherlock’s best interests.  I had no way of foreseeing that a six month course of treatment would spread into a year because of Sherlock’s particular...idiosyncrasies.”    
  
“How long ago?”  John asked curtly.   
“Hm?”  Mycroft responded.   
“How long ago did all of this happen, Mycroft?”   
Mycroft sat back into his plush leather seat and steepled his fingers beneath his chin in much the same manner Sherlock often did.  He regarded John with a steely gaze for a moment before answering,   
“Why do you think he was looking for a flatmate when you met?”  


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It only took 13 chapters, but finally, *finally* the Johnlock smut you've all been waiting for. :) One of my favorite scenes, to be honest!

Meanwhile, as John was sorting himself out and making Sherlock frantic, Jamie was taking a more pragmatic approach with regards to Molly.  She knew that she had dropped a bombshell that was nothing short of atomic, and that even someone less sensitive than Molly would need a great deal of time to get over it.  So as much as it pained her to do so, Jamie waited.  She sent a polite little text once a day, just to say hello, and left it at that.  She was checking her phone so often for Molly’s reply it was starting to look like a nervous tic.  

 

Finally, four days later, Jamie got a response.   
  
Why did you do it?

Which part, Moll?  -jamie

The Sherlock part.

Can we talk about this in person? -jamie

Do you fancy him?   
NO. -jamie.   
  
That was all Jamie got, and then there was silence for another maddening 24 hours.  Jamie wanted to march over to Molly’s flat and demand to see her with every fiber of her being, but she knew just as strongly that something like that would very likely scare Molly off for good.  So Jamie kept waiting.  She lost sleep, she jumped every time she thought she heard her phone go off, and she waited.  

 

While Molly was making Jamie bide her time, John had worn out his welcome at Sarah’s flat and he had to return to Baker Street.  There was a part of him that had always known he would have to, in one capacity or another.  After his discussion with Greg he’d decided that Baker Street was where he belonged.  Even if his feelings were still wildly unfamiliar to him, even if he didn’t know how he would forgive Sherlock for what he’d done.  He climbed the stairs with trepidation and heaved a sigh of relief when he discovered that Sherlock was not home.   _That_ certainly made things a lot easier.  John made himself a cuppa, and enjoyed a long shower, preparing himself to cope with Hurricane Sherlock.  

 

John half sat, half laid upon the couch.  His eyes closed, he drifted in and out of sleep as he tried to wrap his brain around the revelations of the last two days.  He had no frame of reference for this, and felt deeply, terribly out of his element.  

He worried about the future, about how his life and Sherlock’s would change, now that Sherlock was going to be a father.  A father!  John’s mind boggled.  He’d called Sherlock a lot of things in his internal dialogue, but father was never one of them.  He let himself drift off once again, slumped only semi-comfortably into the arm off the sofa.    
  
When he began to wake he felt a definite presence over him.  He didn’t even have to open his eyes to know that it was Sherlock, towering over him and watching his every breath.  John shifted, stretching his arms and legs when he felt a large, slender hand being placed upon his chest.  He fluttered his eyes open to see Sherlock.  It wasn’t just Sherlock though, it was the most vulnerable he had ever seen Sherlock.  In three years of murderers, kidnappers, arsonists, being threatened with death and dismemberment, he had never seen Sherlock look as vulnerable as he looked in that moment.  

 

Sherlock placed his hand lightly upon John’s chest, a simple gesture upon which everything rested.  When John’s eyes fluttered open Sherlock allowed John to see him with all of his guard down.  All his walls were torn away, and with the placing of that hand on John’s chest, Sherlock was placing his heart in John’s hands.  

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, floored at the emotion  he saw there.  He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as beautifully raw as Sherlock was in this moment, almost painful with his unrequited yearning.  

Before he was really aware of what he was doing, John brought up his own hand and placed it reassuringly on Sherlock’s arm.  He let his fingers trace up and down the silken fabric of Sherlock’s shirt before letting his hand come to rest atop Sherlock’s.  They stayed that way for a while, breathing in the moment and letting their eyes carry on a conversation their mouths couldn’t enunciate.  Moisture crept into the corners of Sherlock’s eyes for the second time in a week and he swallowed hard.  

“I don’t know what to say,” Sherlock whispered.

With a soft grin, John said, “That’s got to be a first.”

Even Sherlock grinned at this before saying softly,   
“Are you-are _ **we** _ okay?”

John sighed and thought about how to compose his answer.  Neither of them was going to be much good with words, so he decided he’d take the plunge and respond to Sherlock’s question with action.  Before he lost his nerve, John swiftly grabbed Sherlock at the back of his neck and pulled him close, pressing their lips together roughly.  Sherlock trembled, scarcely daring to believe that this kiss was finally happening.  This kiss, his lips pressed against John’s, the kiss he’d envisioned, hoped for, dreamed about for as long as he could remember.  John’s chin was rough but his lips were soft, and Sherlock was determined to memorize their every pillowy curve.  He moaned into John’s somewhat rough kisses, returning them with the pent up frustration he’d carried within himself for years.    
Willing himself to savor this moment, Sherlock pulled himself away from John’s kisses, hovering over him and taking in every detail of his face as though he were seeing it for the first time.  He let himself come to rest atop John’s chest and buried his nose in John’s hair, finally getting to inhale deeply the scent of him, the tantalizing scent that had teased at his senses for years but that which, until now, he’d never been able to revel in fully.  

His nostrils full of John’s scent, Sherlock began tracing feathery kisses up and down John’s neck, punctuating them with a tentative lick now and then.  John allowed a ragged grunt to escape his lips and the knowledge that he, Sherlock, was causing John to make sounds of pleasure was almost too much for him to bear.  He adjusted himself so that he was lying atop John, his erection rutting against John’s thigh.  

 

John inhaled sharply when he felt the heat and pressure of Sherlock’s erection, pressing into him through their pants.  He felt as though he were drowning in sensation, surrendering to the enjoyment of it and not letting himself think too much about the fact that it was a man; not just any man, but Sherlock, on top of him, kissing him passionately and making him feel as swoony as a teenaged girl.  He could barely breathe, he could scarcely think - and he was glad he didn’t have the opportunity to.  If he had, he would probably be wondering just how long Sherlock had been contemplating doing things like this, how many hours of study Sherlock had spent determining just what would make John feel like putty in those long, slender fingers.  He allowed his arms to snake around Sherlock’s back, gripping his shoulders tightly as he arched his hips upward to make Sherlock aware that he was aroused as well.  

“Bloody hell,” John thought to himself.  “I’m kissing a man, and I’m harder than I’ve been in months!”    
Unable to contain his lustful urges any longer, John adjusted himself, shifting underneath Sherlock so that their waists met, and began to thrust upward against Sherlock.  The sensations, mental, physical, and emotional, of being thrusted against by the man of his dreams caused Sherlock to go still and grit his teeth.    
“Stop,” he growled.  He looked down into John’s eyes, pupils dilated and full of lust, and whispered, “You’re going to make me come.”

 

“Isn’t that the point?”  John replied, feigning innocence.    
“Not like this...I don’t want the first time to be like this,” his unfathomably deep voice was scarcely above a whisper and sent pleasurable vibrations through John’s chest.    
“How, then?”  John couldn’t have stopped to rationalize the fact that he was about to shag Sherlock Holmes even if he’d wanted to.    
  
“Can I...take your trousers off?”  Sherlock asked gruffly, heat crossing his cheeks.    
John couldn’t have said no if he’d had a gun to his head.  He nodded and reached down, unbuckling his belt and fussing with the button on his pants before Sherlock swatted away his hands and unbuttoned John’s fly, reverently and as if he were opening a long awaited Christmas gift.  He unzipped John’s pants and forced them downwards, revealing the bulge of John’s erection against the fabric of his white cotton briefs.  Sherlock bent his head and ever so gently raked his teeth across the fabric, teasing mercilessly.    
  
“Christ!” John hissed. Sherlock flattened his tongue and drew it slowly across the length of John, still restrained by his underpants.    
“Sherlock…” John warned in a strangled, muted voice.  “I can’t take much more of this.”    
  
Sherlock took his cue eagerly.  He grabbed the waistband of John’s briefs with both hands, pulling them down swiftly.  John’s erect penis sprang free, and Sherlock was too impatient and driven by lust to wait any longer.  He curled his tongue deftly and used it to caress the underside of John’s erection, sending moist sensations that were like electrical shocks through John’s body.  It had been too long - _far_ too long since anyone had touched him and John knew he wouldn’t last.    
“Sherl-” John swallowed the second syllable of Sherlock’s name as Sherlock used his warm wet mouth to engulf the whole of John’s penis.

 

John grunted unintelligibly, his eyes going closed as Sherlock worked his mouth up and down John’s shaft.  Barely a full minute later, John’s thighs tensed and he tried to push Sherlock away before he came but Sherlock was having none of that.  He’d waited far too long, he was not going to be denied the chance to taste John at his most intimate.  He increased his suction on John’s member, making obscene slurping noises, and John’s thighs bucked upward, sending the tip of his penis to the back of Sherlock’s mouth and his semen cascading down his throat.  Sherlock gladly accepted every drop, refusing to let go until John went limp underneath him.    
Sherlock swallowed one last time and placed a tender kiss on John’s upper thigh before deftly curling around John and laying down on top of him, his nose buried in his short sandy blonde hair.  

 

His lust subsiding, John’s brain engaged once more and he said to the tall, slim man who had now taken residence on top of him,   
“Christ, Sherlock, you didn’t have to...you know, do _that_.”

 

“I wanted to,” Sherlock responded with a whisper. John could only blush in response.    
  
“I...do you want me, to, you know…?” John’s question trailed off as he rubbed his leg against Sherlock’s still hard member.  

 

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond, and was speechless for just a moment.  He wanted nothing more than to have John help bring him to orgasm, but he was keenly aware of John’s inexperience with other men.    
“I...what are you comfortable with doing?” Sherlock asked, his voice low in John’s ear.    
John let out a chuckle.    
“I have no idea,” he confessed.    
“Then just...watch?”  Sherlock asked, sitting up and looking into John’s eyes as he questioned.    
  
John’s mouth went dry and he nodded.  His head felt thick and heavy as he watched Sherlock unbutton his purple shirt and cast it aside carelessly.  His nimble fingers unfastened his trousers and he pulled them down to his ankles, boxers and all, letting John see all of him.    
  
John’s heart thudded in his ears.  He was seeing another man in a sexual context, and...he wasn’t uncomfortable, he was fascinated.  He couldn’t keep his eyes off of sherlock’s lean, pale, perfect body, nor his seemingly perfect erection.

 

John had never seen anything quite as deliriously erotic as Sherlock using his own tongue to moisten his palm before curling his hand around his rigid penis.  Sherlock stroked himself slowly, methodically, glancing over at John from time to time and licking his lips as if to reawaken the flavor of John on his palate.  Precum beaded up at the tip of Sherlock’s penis and he used that to lubricate himself, stroking faster and allowing himself to look full-on at John as he did so.    
  
John, expecting to be embarrassed by being the focus of another man’s wank, was actually fascinated and deeply turned on.  

 

His eyes met Sherlock’s for a brief, electrically charged moment and their eyes spoke novels at one another.  John licked his lips before allowing himself to be taken in by the moment, telling Sherlock in a husky growl, “Come for me, Sherlock.”    
  
This made Sherlock moan loudly and tilt his head back in ecstasy as he increased the speed of his hand.  His teeth chewing at his lower lip, Sherlock glanced over at John one last time before whispering John’s name between clenched teeth as he came, his cum pooling in his lap and on his chest.  

John exhaled deeply, unaware he’d been holding his breath as he watched Sherlock pleasure himself.  

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced over at John momentarily before standing,putting his boxers and trousers back on in one fluid motion and swiping his shirt off of the sitting room floor before heading into the bathroom and closing the door abruptly behind him.  

John sat back in the sofa and tried to wrap his head around what had just transpired between them.  


	14. Chapter 14

Having a desire to be alone and perhaps to think things through, John decided to make his way to his bedroom before Sherlock left the bathroom.  He climbed the stairs and closed the door behind him, knowing that Sherlock would simply barge in if he felt that there was anything further they needed to discuss.  In the meantime though, he desired the kind of peace that only deep unconsciousness would bring.  John flung himself onto his bed and promptly fell asleep.  

When Sherlock emerged from his shower he was disappointed yet not entirely surprised to see that John had retreated from the sitting room.  Wisely deciding to leave John to his thoughts, Sherlock paced the room, bored, before deciding to pay Jamie a visit.  It really was quite handy, having someone else just down the stairs who was a more responsive listener than Billy.  Sherlock dashed down the stairs two at a time, rapping at Jamie’s door.  She opened it, looking ill.   
“Ugh,” was all Jamie said in greeting, opening the door wide so he could enter.    
“Pregnancy sickness?”  Sherlock asked as they went down the stairs into her flat.   
“You could say that,” she said sardonically.  

“What is it?”

“Can’t you deduce that, Mister Consulting Detective?”

“Pregnant women...not my area.”    
“Hah!” Jamie snorted. “Truer words have never been spoken.” After a pause, she confessed.  “Just sorting out some...personal issues, that’s all.”  

“Meaning?”

“Jesus Sherlock, you want me to spell it out for you?  I’m fucking miserable, and it is mental, not physical.  The baby is fine, so far as I can tell.  I think, though, that I’m in love.”  

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, studying her carefully before speaking again.    
“Well, as much as I appreciate that you are making a large sacrifice in order to ensure my happiness, I am afraid that I cannot reciprocate your feelings.”  When Jamie’s face filled with rage and frustration, and she balled up her fists, Sherlock knew he’d made quite an error.  Forcing himself to detach from the situation, he scanned her critically.  Without bothering to explain the process of his deduction, Sherlock declared,   
“You and Molly have had a row.  You explained to her your feelings, and in doing so, you obviously must have explained to her our circumstances, given the fact that your pregnancy will begin to show very soon.  This has upset her greatly.”

Jamie nodded silently and studied her lap, for once grateful that Sherlock could see right through her without her having to explain.

 

“It’s so simple, really,” Sherlock continued. “I will go to the morgue tomorrow and explain everything, Molly is a reasonable person, she will understand.”    
“No!”  Jamie shouted forcefully.  “It’s my mess, I have to straighten it out.”   
“In fairness, it is our mess.”    
“Sherlock, this isn’t just about the baby, it’s also about the fact that she’s straight and I’m not!”  

“The fact that she has been romantically interested in me for nearly four years complicates matters.”

“You knew?” Jamie demanded.

“How could I not?  The transparency of it all was nearly painful.  However, feelings are not my area of expertise, and I calculated that feigning ignorance was the least risky way to respond to her advances.  Or to not respond, as it were.”  

Jamie’s shoulders sagged in defeat.    
“I want to strangle you sometimes, Sherlock Holmes.”    
“You are hardly alone, I’d venture.”

“Still,” she continued, “Stay out of this.  I’m waiting and biding my time, I think that Molly will come around eventually.  Even if she never wants to be in a relationship with me, I want her to be my friend.  I can do that, I can separate the romantic feelings I was having for her, if it means getting my friend back.”  

Sherlock pondered for a moment before speaking.    
“Jamie,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “I understand you more completely than you can ever know.”  

“John?” She asked.    
Sherlock nodded once in affirmation, his gaze never leaving the rug.  

“He came by,” she said as nonchalantly as she could.   
“When?”   
“Couple days ago.  He was really, really upset.”  Jamie leaned in conspiratorially.    
“As a matter of fact,” she said softly, “He was much more upset than any ‘friend’ should be.  He was as upset as if his lover had just told him they’d been cheating on him.”

Sherlock sat back, letting all of this sink in.  

“I think you’ve got a good chance with him, Sherlock,” Jamie said with a slight, knowing grin.   
“I should hope so,” he said, standing up and heading for the door, “Considering what conspired between us this evening.  Good night, Jamie.”   
And with that, Sherlock Holmes disappeared up the stairs, leaving Jamie gaping open-mouthed in her chair.  

 

Early the next morning, Sherlock swept into the morgue authoritatively and called out,   
  
“38-year-old man, multiple stab wounds, need to see the corpse please Molly.”    
  
Molly emerged from round a corner looking very pale indeed.  Without saying a word, she retrieved the body from cold storage and turned her back to him, busying herself with other tasks.  

Sighing internally, dreading it but knowing it had to be done, Sherlock spoke, with one gloved hand prodding at a serrated wound in the vicinity of the corpse’s liver.   
  
“It’s not like you to be so quiet, Molly.”  He was surprised at the amount of venom behind her voice when she finally spoke.   
“Well, it’s not like you to shag-!”  She bit her lip hard to interrupt her shouting, her eyes brimming full of emotion as she looked at him defiantly from across the gurney.  

 

“We should...talk about this,” Sherlock hesitated.   
“What?  Why?  What makes you feel that you owe me an explanation for anything?”  Molly shook a little as she stared him down.    
  
“I owe you nothing, Molly Hooper.  However, I am...interested in your well being?”  His voice raised at the end of the statement, unintentionally turning it into a question.    
“Jamie sent you, didn’t she?” Molly pouted.   
“Come now, Molly, think. It can’t be that difficult for you.  Jamie is a close friend of yours, indicating that you know a great deal about her personality and character.  Does she at all seem like the type of person to shy away from emotional confrontation?  She is a psychologist, after all.”  

 

Molly considered this for a moment and grudgingly admitted to herself that Jamie was not that type of person. She said nothing to Sherlock, merely shooting him a look.  At loose ends, Sherlock continued his examination while determining how best to speak with Molly without raising her ire.  Happily for him, Molly decided to break the silence first.  

 

“I just…” she began, her hands upturned in frustration, “I just don’t know what to do with all this, you know?  I start to think I’ve got it sorted, that I can handle having a friend who’s got a crush on me, and then I start to think about the baby, and you, and it all gets so complicated!”

 

“Molly,” Sherlock said, his eyes never leaving the corpse which laid between them, “I believe that you, of all people, know what it is like to harbor an unrequited crush for a long period of time.”  

 

Molly froze, a blush rising to her cheeks.    
“Wha...what do you mean by that, Sherlock?”  She was trying to play it cool, nonchalant.    
  
“You and I, Molly.”  Sherlock asserted.  “You’ve been hoping nearly since the day that we met, that I would notice you and fall in love with you.  I’m here to tell you that I have noticed you.  I have noticed you and appreciated you as the finest pathologist I’ve known.  I would not have worked with anyone less than the best for this long.”   
  
Molly started to feel faint, and she wrung her hands together, not being able to speak a single word.  Sherlock looked up from the table, his blue-green eyes piercing into hers.    
His voice low, he spoke.

“There was a time when I knowingly led you on and used your feelings for my own purposes and for that, I am sorry.  I never did it to be intentionally hurtful.  I simply did not want to lose what we do have on account of what can never be.”    
She opened her mouth to speak but he shushed her.    
“Please, Molly, Doctor Hooper, please do not let me and my actions stand between you and your happiness ever again.  If you cannot be attracted to another woman, that’s fine.  No one can force you to be.  But you had a bond with Jamie, a solid friendship the likes of which I will never know.  Don’t throw that away because of my predilection for taking advantage of people.”  

  
Without so much as a wave or a goodbye, Sherlock snapped off his rubber gloves and strode out of the morgue.  He doubted anyone could ever really understand just how difficult it was for him to come to terms with the emotions of others, to make sense of them and to respond to them in an appropriate way.  It was exhausting, debilitating, nonsensical and made him desperately want to shoot up, but he resisted, instead slapping two nicotine patches to his arm and strolling toward Baker Street.  


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally consummate their relationship. 'Nuff said. :-)

As it turned out, The stabbing victim Sherlock had examined was just the first in a series of murdered men. The next two weeks passed in a blur for Sherlock and John, as they chased the murderer across the UK, finally running her down in Wales.  7 men in total she had stabbed to death, and there would have been an eighth had it not been for Sherlock and John.  In the constant rush of trying to find a pattern and run down the killer before she murdered again, there was barely any time to breathe, much less to think about the new development in their relationship.  

 

There was a hum of nervous energy crackling between them while on their journey home, despite feeling post-case exhaustion.  Sherlock and John gazed out the windows of the cab as intently as tourists, hesitant to meet each other’s eyes.  Neither of them knew what was going to transpire between them once they were alone again.  

  
Once their cab pulled up at Baker Street, John and Sherlock trudged up the stairs to their flat the same way they’d done a thousand times before, as if nothing were different between them.  Once inside their flat though, the tension was thick.  Sherlock neglected to settle into his chair or the sofa, instead flitting from room to room and fiddling with anything he could grasp.  John had stopped just inside the door, dropping his duffel on the rug and obviously struggling with the decision of what to do next.  It took very little time at all for John to get fed up with the indecision.

“Oh sod it!” He declared gruffly, crossing the room in three sharp strides and bracing Sherlock against the mantelpiece.

 He grabbed the taller man’s collar roughly and bent him down, pressing their lips together.  Sherlock yielded to John instantly, unable to resist moaning into his blogger’s eager mouth.  Their kisses came in waves, cresting urgently and passionately then drawing back, tender and soft.  

As they kissed, their hands wandered, and their bodies drifted in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.  His hands underneath John’s jumper, Sherlock pulled his lips away for a moment and looked at John probingly.  

“This isn’t just...physical, you know that don’t you John?”  Sherlock inquired, incongruously enough considering that his hard cock was nearly pinning John to the wall.    
  
“I think so, yeah,” John said, barely above a whisper.  “This is all so...it’s different but it is the same.  It’s still our flat, we still solve cases when Scotland Yard is hopelessly lost, you are still my mate.  It’s just...more than that, now.”   
  
Sherlock looked down into John’s face with his piercing gaze, and spoke.   
  
“I’ve never...shared so much of myself with someone, John.  There’s been sex, yes.  There have been people I have used to gain access to places I needed to investigate, but they’ve never been the constant, pervasive presence you hold in my home, my mind...even my heart, although many would deny I have one.”  

John was left speechless by Sherlock’s outpouring of emotion.  Not knowing what to say, he lifted a hand and ran it affectionately through Sherlock’s messy curls.    
  
“I guess there’s a reason no one else ever worked out,” John finally mused.  “There’s not been anybody but you since we’ve met, it just took me a bloody long time to figure that out.”  

“I refused to acknowledge it for longer than I care to admit,” Sherlock admitted.  “I know that I acted without considering your feelings, when I got involved with Jamie,” Sherlock placed an affectionate hand on John’s shoulder when John flinched at the mention of her name- “But it was when I met her that the lock sprang open, do you see?  The tumblers started to fall into place and I knew...I knew that I need you John, that...I love you.”  

There it was.  The moment that John knew was coming, the moment he both anticipated and dreaded simultaneously.  He knew that once Sherlock declared his love, there would be no going back.  John felt the same, there was no doubt about that - but there were situations, complications, issues that arose from their being together, that he wasn’t yet sure he knew how to deal with.  How could it be, he wondered to himself, that hearing declarations of love from the man he’d already devoted his life to, for all intents and purposes, was more terrifying than being deployed in a warzone where he literally shook hands with death on a daily basis?  

 

John licked his lips, and smiled ever so slightly.    
“Sherlock...you know, you _have_ to know, because you’re so stubbornly fucking brilliant, that I love you as well.  But are you sure you’re ready for what it all means, you and I, letting everyone know what’s going on between us?”    
  
Sherlock snorted derisively.   
“Half of London already thinks we’re having it on, you know.  And I’ve noted as of late that those assumptions do not seem to affect you as much as they once did, Dr. Watson.”  

Sherlock had a point there, John thought to himself.    
  
“In that case, Mister Holmes,” John said in response, “Can I take you to bed and prove half of London right?”  
  
Sherlock smirked.   
“Nothing would please me more,” he asserted, leading John by the hand into his bedroom.  

  
  


Sherlock gently closed the bedroom door behind them and swept John up into his arms, kissing him with all the pent up love and passion he’d been saving for what felt like decades.  John reacted to his passion with surprise at first, and then kissed back just as passionately, his hands exploring Sherlock’s impossibly long back and slender waist.  Sherlock’s hands went up underneath John’s jumper, stroking abdomen, sides, back, any of John’s skin which he could reach. Sherlock pressed his hand into the small of John’s back, bringing their bodies closer together as he let his tongue dance between John’s lips.  John moaned, letting himself go slack against Sherlock’s tall, rigid body.  

 

Once they’d become nearly breathless from kissing, Sherlock pulled away from John and shrugged out of his suit jacket with one hand as he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt with the other.  John stopped him before he could get a single button unfastened.    
  
“Oh no,” John said under his breath, his voice tinged with authority, “You will not be undressing yourself tonight - I will.”  

It was all Sherlock could do to keep himself from gulping audibly.  He had dreamed about this for as long as he could remember- he, Sherlock Holmes, was the dynamic man of constant thought and motion when he was investigating a case, but in the deepest recesses of his mind he’d had the fantasy of John, his ever-loyal companion, taking charge and dominating him in the bedroom.  In that moment, Sherlock melted entirely.  John pulled his jumper off and tossed it into the corner clad in nothing but a white undershirt and his jeans.  He backed Sherlock up into a corner and traced his jawline with a firm fingertip.  

“You are ruddy fucking gorgeous, and you know it, that’s your problem,” John whispered.  He pressed his hip into Sherlock, grinding into him, as he grabbed first one of Sherlock’s wrists, and then the other, and pinned them up, leaving Sherlock to moan with desire.  He kissed Sherlock roughly, ravaging the delicate Cupid’s bow of his lips.

John used his hold on Sherlock’s wrists to force him to turn round, so that he was facing into the corner of the room.  John pressed himself into Sherlock, letting his hard cock grind against Sherlock’s ample backside.    
  
“God, you’ve got a fantastic ass,” he grunted, giving Sherlock a couple rough thrusts as a promise of what was to come.  John nearly became lightheaded from desire when he felt Sherlock tremble against him and heard him whimper helplessly.    
  
John decided then to have mercy on Sherlock, and used his firm hold on Sherlock’s wrists to turn him round again and lead him to the bed.  He sat Sherlock down and stood before him, looking down upon him as his fingers went to Sherlock’s buttons and he began undoing them slowly.

 

Gooseflesh rose across Sherlock as John took pains to brush his fingertips against every new inch of skin that was uncovered by the unfastening of each new button.  Once the shirt was undone, John motioned for Sherlock to stand again, and wasted no time in covering Sherlock’s chest and abdomen in kisses.  He let his fingertips trace the outlines of Sherlock’s abdominal muscles, which were just visible.   
  
“This feels so right,” John marveled.  There was a lack of soft, ample curves, of sweetness and perfume and full breasts, but he was still as aroused as he’d ever been in his life.  His fingers lingered at the “V” which pointed downward towards Sherlock’s crotch, and he let himself cup the bulge just below his waistline.  Sherlock whimpered at John’s touch, his every thought begging John to undo his trousers and touch the hot, needy flesh of his cock.  

 

As if he’d heard and understood Sherlock’s silent pleadings, John unfastened the button and slowly let down the zipper of Sherlock’s pants, inch by inch.  He pushed the smooth fabric down over Sherlock’s hips and let the pants fall to the floor.  He licked his lips and admired the sight of Sherlock’s erection straining at the fabric of his boxer shorts before tugging them down to the floor as well.  He helped Sherlock step free of his clothes, and slipped his shirt off of his shoulders, and gazed at the gorgeous nakedness before him.  Sherlock’s body was pale, lithe yet lightly muscled, and in John’s eyes, perfect.  He motioned for Sherlock to get back onto the bed before making quick work of his own clothes, taking a moment to enjoy how hungrily Sherlock stared once he was completely naked.  

John joined Sherlock on the bed and they let their naked bodies come together, feeling complete skin-to-skin contact for the first time.  Sherlock wrapped his limbs around John, reveling in the new sensations.  They reveled in one another, touching any place they could reach.  When Sherlock decided he couldn't handle the onslaught of sensation any more, he stopped John and gave him a meaningful look. 

Heartbeat pulsing, Sherlock told John breathlessly, “I want you inside me.”  
Biting his lip, eager yet trepidatious, John nodded.  “Help show me, yeah?”  He asked.    
  
Sherlock retrieved lubricant from the bedside table and squirted some into his hand, then applied it generously to John’s erection, nimble fingers working it everywhere.  John’s breath caught in his throat as he stifled a groan of pleasure.    
  
“God, careful - you’re going to make me come just like that!”  Sherlock couldn’t hold back a grin, enjoying how incredible it felt to bring John so much pleasure with so little effort.  Sex between them was going to be explosive, he could tell.

He grabbed John’s hand and placed a generous amount of lubricant in his palm.  “Work it around, on your fingers,” Sherlock instructed, “and then use them - slowly - to get me ready for you.”  

Scarcely able to believe what was happening, John did as he was instructed, kneeling between Sherlock’s legs and spreading the lube around.  Sherlock put another dollop into John’s hand and he coated Sherlock’s tight hole.  Sherlock nodded his readiness and John teased at the entrance before slowly working a finger inside Sherlock, centimeter by centimeter.  He was in to his second knuckle before Sherlock whispered hoarsely, “Another.”  John obliged, taking his time and adding a second finger to the one that was already surrounded by the incredible tightness of Sherlock’s body.  Sherlock’s cock twitched and he groaned as John slowly, tentatively, worked his fingers back and forth inside him.  

“Now...I need you now, John,” Sherlock begged.  John nodded and pulled his fingers out gradually, then used his hand to guide his penis to the entrance to the hot hole where they’d been.  He hesitated, looking to Sherlock for reassurance, before slipping the head of his cock inside him.  

John had never felt anything so tight and hot in all his life.  He kept pushing, bit by bit, never taking his eyes off of Sherlock’s blissed-out face.  He was soon as deep inside the other man as he could be, and he felt dizzy as he came to grips with what was happening.  

“Go ahead, John...please,” Sherlock begged, his whole body rigid with need.  John acquiesced and gave him a couple shallow thrusts, groaning low as he watched how Sherlock squirmed beneath him.  Sherlock’s slim, pale hips started rising to meet John, urging him to increase his speed.  John obliged, tentatively at first, and then more confidently as Sherlock’s body seemed to mold itself to fit his.  Emboldened, John removed a hand from Sherlock’s hip and wrapped it snugly around the shaft of his penis.  At the feel of John’s hand on his member, Sherlock positively screamed with pleasure from between clenched teeth.    
“John…” Sherlock begged, and John used his slick, moist hand to echo the rhythm that his cock was thrusting into him.  Sherlock’s whole body tensed, and John whispered “Yes” as Sherlock came, his backside clenched and his cock spurting into John’s hand.  

Watching Sherlock writhe beneath him, howling with pleasure, sent John toward the edge.  He redoubled his efforts, thrusting himself deeply into Sherlock before slamming himself in all the way to the hilt and filling Sherlock with his cum.  

Wordlessly they separated themselves and cleaned off, then climbed back into the bed curled up against one another as naturally as if they'd done this a hundred times.  

 "That's not going in the blog," Sherlock declared, John's head pressed into his chest.  John looked up at him and they both laughed, John thinking to himself how beautiful and exotic Sherlock's smile was, and what a shame that he did not share it more often.  They drifted off to sleep soon after, heads full of all the possibilities the future held.  


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Jamie realize how much they have missed one another.

As John and Sherlock were exploring the new depths of their relationship and sleeping off some post-coital bliss, Jamie was pleased to wake and discover a morning text from Molly.   
  
Been thinking. Want to go out to dinner? ~Molly

There’s nothing I would love more. -jamie

Good. Tonight? ~Molly

Sure!  Um, can I ask a question? -jamie

Ok. ~Molly

Is this a friends thing? If it is, I am OKAY with that. I just want my friend back. -jamie

You can treat it like a date if you want, but I get to say no if it gets weird, yeah? ~Molly

OF COURSE.  I’m grateful to see you in any context. -jamie

 

They swapped details and Jamie crawled out of bed.  She couldn’t resist doing a happy little dance at the thought of seeing Molly, and she hummed and sang her whole way through a shower.  

Jamie rang the doorbell to Molly’s flat at the appointed time that evening, her hand shaking just a little.  She smoothed the front of her shirt and nervously adjusted the waistband of her jeans, overly anxious about the fact that they were tighter than usual.  

“ _Thanks_ , Sherlock,” Jamie thought to herself sarcastically.  

All her discomfort was forgotten, however, as soon as Molly came to the door.  Her hair was loose, and she was wearing a long cotton dress with little flowers on it, a cardigan and some flats.    
  
“You look beautiful, Molly,” Jamie said sincerely.  “Here, these are for you.” She presented Molly with a riotously colorful bouquet of Gerbera daisies.  “I saw these on the way here and they reminded me so much of you I had to get them.”  Molly blushed and accepted them gratefully, inviting Jamie in while she found a vase for them.  Toby greeted her and she scratched him absentmindedly as she watched Molly take care of her flowers.  

“No matter what happens tonight,” Jamie told herself, “I am going to be grateful that I’m getting this chance.”  

 

With Molly ready to go, Jamie led the way to the waiting cab and chivalrously opened the door for her.  Once they were more relaxed, and all thoughts of formality had gone by the wayside, they had a great time.  Dinner flew by in a whirl of catching up, each of them feeling a pang at how much they had missed the other.  Molly loved how enthusiastically Jamie listened to whatever she had to say, and how Jamie’s sense of humor about everything lit up a room.  Jamie loved bringing Molly out of her shell and catching glimpses of the strength, tenacity and fierce intelligence which she hid beneath her lumpy jumpers.  With dinner over, and discovering they were within walking distance of Jamie’s flat, Molly gladly accepted Jamie’s offer of a stroll back to Baker Street for some tea.  

There had been a time, for Molly, when the words ‘Baker Street’ had only one meaning:  Sherlock.  But now, as they entered the threshold of the door marked ‘221B,’ Molly was pleased to find that Baker Street now evoked warm thoughts of her dear friend Jamie and that Sherlock was simply an afterthought.

Once inside, Molly sat nervously on Jamie’s sofa, consciously trying to relax.  Jamie brought her a cup of tea and sat down next to her.    
“I’m glad we did this tonight Molly, thank you.”  

Molly smiled.   
“I’ve missed my friend,” she said.   
“I have too, Molly.”  

She took a sip of her tea and set it down again, fidgeting slightly.    
“Can I just...I mean, what I want to say is, can I just try-”  Molly threw up her hands, exasperated with her inability to speak, and leaned in to give Jamie a quick, bashful peck on the cheek.  She drew away and giggled nervously, reaching for her tea again.    
“That wasn’t so bad,” she spoke down into her tea mug and blushed.    
  
Jamie smiled, heat rising across her face.

“You don’t have to...I didn’t take you on a date to manipulate you.  I’m not Sherlock.”    
  
Molly sobered and looked at Jamie.  “I know.  I just, wanted to give it a try, you know?  What if I like it?”    
Jamie nodded, willing to patiently give Molly plenty of time to move at her own pace.  

Molly set down her mug once again and turned to face Jamie.  Her heart thumped and she had a strange sensation down deep inside of her, an ache that was not so much painful as it was deliciously tantalizing.

“Mm-meet me halfway?”  Molly asked, looking into Jamie’s eyes.  Jamie nodded and leaned in slowly, inch by inch, as Molly did the same.  Their lips met in the middle and it was all Jamie could do not to moan.  It was a mostly chaste kiss, but Molly’s lips felt like rose petals and they tasted faintly of the sugar in her tea.  In that moment, Jamie was smitten and felt completely drunk on Molly’s sweetness.  

They pulled away from one another, as breathless and bashful as teenagers after their first snog.  There was an awkward silence as they turned their attention away from one another, sipping at their tea and pondering the next step.

Unable to resist, Jamie cracked a joke.   
  
Turning back toward Molly suddenly, she asked,   
“How much does a polar bear weigh?”   
Looking completely confused, Molly asked, “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Enough to break the ice!” Jamie smiled impishly and elbowed Molly softly.  Realizing what Jamie had done, Molly groaned.  “Oh you’re terrible!”  Molly exclaimed, giggling and playfully swatting at Jamie.   At ease once more, they chatted a while longer before it was time for Molly to leave.   
“I’m due in the morgue early tomorrow,” Molly said apologetically, gathering up her bag and heading for the door.   
“S’ok,” Jamie responded. “I should be doing as much of my work as I can now, considering I don’t know how I’ll be feeling...in a few months.”  She trailed off, unsure how Molly would handle being reminded of the one subject they had neglected to discuss the entire evening.  

Molly sighed and looked solemn.   
“Yeah...we’d best talk about that, at some point.”   
“It doesn’t have to be tonight, Molly.”

“So it was _just_ physical for you, then?” She pushed on.  “You don’t want to be with Sherlock?”  

“God no,” Jamie replied emphatically. “He’s...well, he is 'problems' personified.  Not only that, there’s someone else.  It was never about he and I, Molly.  It’s always been about him and John.”

“But...if that is who he wanted to be with, why bring you into it?”  Molly’s face showed concern and confusion.  

“Honestly?  You’re not gonna believe this, but he believed that it would make John stay.  From what I’ve been told, John has had thoughts of starting a family ever since he left the Army.  Sherlock, who has the emotional intelligence of an eight year old boy, thought that John would stay if they had a family here, together.”   
Molly was floored.   
“And he didn’t- but what about-” She stammered.  

“I don’t know,” Jamie quelled.  “What I do know is that Sherlock has been pining for John for some time now, even though he knew John was straight.  Of course, if you ask me, there’s been no one for John but Sherlock since the day they met, but I digress.  It all leads up to the fact that Sherlock lied and used me, and to be completely honest with you I kinda hate the fact that he’s getting his way, but it’s not just him anymore, is it?  There’s another person, a boy or a girl, who is half me in spite of also being half Sherlock.  He could find that things are falling into place exactly as he wanted them to, but there will be a price.  He will pay dearly for all of this, emotionally speaking, and will either destroy him or it will make him a better man, a Sherlock 2.0 if you will.”    
  
Jamie took a deep breath and leaned back, realizing that she had been deep into a rant.  Molly’s face had grown pale as she took it all in and processed what she was hearing.  Not knowing what to do or say next, she simply pulled Jamie into a supportive hug.

“Can I slap him, the next time I see him?”  Molly asked into Jamie’s ear, only partially joking.  Arms still wrapped around Molly, Jamie chuckled in response.  She gave Molly a little squeeze and pulled away, hoping she wouldn’t scare Molly off by looking too deeply into her brown eyes.    
  
“Thank you, Moll, for everything.  For your support, your forgiveness, your friendship...thank you.”  Molly shrugged, willing to brush it off.  Jamie kissed her on the cheek and walked her to the door, bidding her a very fond farewell.  


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jamie find out the sex of their impending arrival.

Time passed, as it does, and Autumn descended upon London.  The wind and rain took on a harsh, bitter edge and promised a cold winter to come.  It was early November when Sherlock got an interesting text from Jamie.    
  
20-week scan coming up.  Do we want to know the gender? -jamie

Undoubtedly, yes. -SH

So, um, since this is kind of a big appointment...will you come with me? -jamie

There was a twenty-minute pause before Jamie received the next message.  

If that is what you prefer I would be happy to accompany you. -SH

With a smirk, Jamie responded.    
  
You just asked John how to answer that, didn’t you?? :-) -jamie

I may have...consulted.  Please respond with date and time. -SH

 

Chuckling, Jamie typed out the information requested and sent it to Sherlock.  Several days later, he appeared at her door at the appointed time and ushered her into the cab he’d arranged for them.  Pleasantly surprised at Sherlock’s thoughtfulness, Jamie thanked him as they got in and gave the address to the driver.  

They rode in silence to the clinic, neither quite knowing what to say to the other.  The cab pulled to a stop outside the modern, single-story building and Sherlock, true to his word, paid the driver himself.  He hovered in the waiting room while Jamie checked in with the receptionist.  A tired looking, yet expensively dressed housewife with a basketball-sized stomach and two toddlers hanging off of her smiled at Sherlock and unwisely tried to start a conversation.    
  
“How far along is she then, luv?”  

“I’m sorry?”  He looked down his nose at her, quite surprised to have been spoken to.  

“That’s your girl, the one you came in with, innit?  How far gone is she?  Blimey I’m sure you’d make some handsome children, you’re so tall aren’t you?”    
  
It was obvious to Sherlock from her pratter, that she was desperate for some adult conversation.  He looked down at her intensely and with that one look she told him volumes without speaking a word.  

She was quite common, judging from her accent, but she had married well.  She was still unused to her wealth, but she was grateful for it and did not take it for granted.  Her first pregnancy had been an unexpected set of twins, the two toddlers who were currently using her as a jungle gym.  She drove a Mercedes and the family owned two cats.  She was currently unhappy with her husband for not cleaning the litterbox as often as she would’ve liked.  

Before he could open his mouth and potentially insult the harried young mother, Jamie caught sight of him and dragged him away by the sleeve.    
“Dont make this any more awkward than it has to be, Sherlock. “  

He merely huffed in response.  

Within minutes Jamie’s name had been called and she was being taken back to an exam room, Sherlock looming in her wake like an oversized shadow.  

The nurse pointed to an open-backed gown on the exam table and made a lame attempt at a joke.    
  
“Now I’ll need you to strip to your underwear and put this on, and no getting fresh, mind you!  I know what you young couples are like!”  With a saucy wink the middle-aged nurse had gone, closing the door behind her and leaving them alone together.    
  
Jamie’s face flushed red and Sherlock rolled his eyes.    
As Jamie reached for the buttons of her blouse, he spoke up.    
  
“I’ll look away if you need me to.”    
  
“You’ve already seen it all, what’s the point?”  There was an edge to her voice as she unbuttoned her blouse and slipped it down her shoulders.    
  
He stole a glance at her, just slightly longer than was polite.  He was taken aback at just how much she had changed in these few short months.  Her breasts had grown at least a full cup size and were spilling over her bra precariously.  Her stomach, which he'd remembered as being unmuscled and flat, was swollen and rounded.  He marveled at the especially prominent bump which protruded just below her navel.

She slipped off the rest of her clothes and was quick to put the gown on over her naked flesh.  They waited in silence for the obstetrician to arrive.  

“Did you get a good look at how it’s changed me?”  She said, bitterness in her tone.  

No apology, he simply said,   
  
“Is it..uncomfortable?”  

“Sometimes,” she admitted.  “My boobs are ridiculous and heavy and I have this nearly constant queasy sensation in my gut.  Like I’ve constantly eaten too much pasta and I’m bloated.  Aside from that, it’s not too bad.”    
  
All Sherlock could do was nod once in response, not sure how he could respond to her Italian food-to-pregnancy simile.   
Before they were forced to make any more awkward conversation, the doctor came in and began his examination.  He declared that, so far as he could tell, everything was progressing normally and took his leave to make way for the ultrasound tech.    
  
Jamie felt jittery as the tech brought in the machinery.  She swallowed a lump in her throat and instinctively reached for Sherlock’s hand.  He was stunned, momentarily, at her touch, but swiftly took her hand in both of his and held it in a manner he hoped was soothing.  
  
“What a lovely couple,” the tech said, smiling over Jamie as she squeezed ultrasound gel across her belly.   
“Erm, actually,” Jamie began,   
“She’s my surrogate.”  Sherlock asserted.  “Just trying to be supportive,” he explained.    
Grateful for Sherlock’s uncharacteristic use of social grace, she squeezed his hand lightly.  

“Ah, well, it takes all kinds to make a family these days!”  The tech said brightly, using the ultrasound wand to start searching around for a good look at the baby.  She turned the monitor so that Jamie and Sherlock could both see, and out of the darkness came a small, amorphous blob that wriggled ever so slightly.    
  
“There it is!” the tech said cheerily.  “thats your baby.”  And if we are lucky, they’ll cooperate, and you'll leave here knowing if you’re having a boy or a girl."

As if the baby could hear and understand what was happening, it suddenly did a little turn and showed itself to the screen.  The ultrasound tech made a little “Oop!” of surprise and said, “Well, that was blessed easy! Are you ready?”  She asked them.    
They nodded in tandem.  

The tech used the mouse and pointer and circled a spot, then zoomed in and typed onto the screen   
ITS A BOY!   
  
Sherlock gripped Jamie’s hand tightly and looked at her wide-eyed, unsure of what her reaction would be.  Their eyes met and they both grinned.  

“And everything looks well, he is healthy?” Sherlock probed.   
“Yep, so far as I can tell, I will need to get a couple more images and the OB will look them over, but from what I can see he looks like a healthy, active little blighter!  Congratulations to you.”  She said with a warm smile.  

As Jamie got dressed once the tech left the room, she asked Sherlock quietly,   
“So did this part go according to your plan as well?”  

He looked at her and shrugged.   
“I’d had no preferences as to the sex of the child.”    
Jamie said nothing and nodded.   
“Does this...affect how you feel?”  He asked.    
“Not at all,” she responded.  

They sat together in silence for a moment before she asked,   
“How’s John?”    
  
Emotion flickered across Sherlock’s face for the briefest of moments.    
“It’s...well, you are not the only one who needs time to adjust.”  

“Relationships can be tricky, Sherlock,” Jamie said softly.

“An understatement, to say the least,” Sherlock replied.  

~

That night, John and Sherlock had a blistering row in relation to one of their cases, followed by the kind of make-up sex that leaves bruises.  The heat of their passion melted away their anger and frustration and they showered together in silence afterward, gently sponging one another and laying kisses here and there.  

Back in bed, they read in companionable silence for quite some time before Sherlock spoke.  

“It’s a boy, you know.”  Sherlock began, out of the blue.    
“Hm?”  John responded, looking puzzled.    
“The baby.  The scan was today and we learned the sex.  It’s a boy.”

John let the information sink in for a moment, then shrugged.   
“In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Meaning?”  It was Sherlock’s turn to look puzzled.    
“Meaning, Sherlock, that I’ve chosen to be in a relationship with you, even though from time to time you are an utter prat, as we saw earlier tonight.  But aside from all that, it means that we’re sharing our lives with one another - and part of your life, Sherlock, is your child.”   
  
“ _Our_ child,” Sherlock corrected.  “This has been our child from the very beginning, John.”  

“Sherlock, just because you want something to be doesn’t mean that it is. “    
“How do I fix it, then?”  Sherlock was obviously out of his element.    
“You don’t.”  John smiled regretfully, looking like a parent looks at a child who’s learning a hard life lesson.  

“We cope, and we make the best, and that’s all that can be done.”  After a moment’s pause, he mused -

“Bloody good thing we’re sleeping together now.”  

Obviously not following, Sherlock furrowed his brow questioningly.  

“The _baby_? The one who will be living here in a few months?  He’s going to need a nursery, Sherlock.”

They contemplated one another for a moment, John looking for a flicker of understanding in Sherlock and Sherlock looking rather blank.  

“So...you’re saying...you’re alright with the baby living with us, here, full time?”

John responded wordlessly, with a look that said, ‘I am so done with your shit.’

“What is it that Jamie calls you, when you’re being especially daft?”   
“Emotionally retarded?”  

“Yeah, that’s it.  It’s got a ring to it - she may be growing on me after all.”  John collected his thoughts for a moment before speaking again, more seriously this time.    
“You know how I feel about you, Sherlock,” he said in a softened voice, “and this baby - your son - is half you, so I’m sure I’ll feel the same about him.”   
A smirk spread across Sherlock’s angular face.   
“Say it,” he demanded.    
“Say what?”  John maintained an air of innocence.    
“How you feel about me, John.”    
John shook his head.    
“You know, you stubborn arse.  You’d never forget it.”    
“All good researchers collect data more than once, John.”    
“You know I’m not good with ...all that.  Besides.” John sat up and feigned indignance, “Is that all I am to you? Research?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock responded slowly, drawing it out.    
“And perhaps I find it very...pleasant to hear the words repeated from time to time. “  

Sherlock’s confession touched him, and John made sure his eyes met Sherlock’s before he spoke again.    
“In that case, Sherlock, I love you.  And because I love you, I’m going to be here for you, and help make sure that your son has a good home here.”    
Sherlock bent his head to place a soft kiss on John’s lips.    
“Our son.  And I love you too, John.”  He promptly turned over and switched off the light, pulling the covers over himself and silently inviting John to spoon up to him from behind.  


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We fast-forward to December; Mycroft pays his 'dear' brother a visit.

A chilly day near Christmas found Sherlock, John and Jamie lounging in the sitting room at 221B, sipping tea and putting off looking at the legal documents they’d come together to peruse.  

 

Sherlock’s stomach sank when heard an ominously familiar sound on the hardwood floor in the stairwell.  It was the soft, unmistakable tread of expensive Italian leather shoes punctuated by the occasional tap of a long black umbrella.  

 

“ **Mycroft**.” Sherlock said without turning around, his voice made of solid ice.    
  
“Such a warm welcome, dear brother,” Mycroft responded smugly.  “I dropped by because I’d heard there’s some _news_ you may want to be sharing?”    
  
Jamie looked up guilelessly.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock, this is your brother?  Wow, it’s great to meet you!” She rose from her chair, the rounded swell of her belly quite pronounced, and walked over to Mycroft, her hand extended.  

 

Mycroft looked down his substantial nose at her and grasped the tips of her fingers, shaking lightly before withdrawing his hand and wiping it upon his trousers.

Undaunted, Jaimie continued trying to break the ice.    
“So what do you do, Mycroft?”

Mycroft kept looking at her as though he was smelling something incredibly distasteful.    
  
Before Mycroft could open his mouth to speak, Sherlock leapt from his chair and stood next to Jamie.    
“British Government,” John said curtly.  

“He’s the Queen- _ahem_ , answers to the Queen, rather,” Sherlock continued, his faux pas very intentional.    
“Ah, I see, well, it is fascinating to meet someone so important!” Jamie enthused, still confident she could win Mycroft over.    
“I’m certain it must be,” Mycroft patronized.    
  
To Sherlock’s great surprise, it was then that John rose from his chair and said, “Jamie, if we’re still going down to the shops we’d better leave now, yeah?”

 

Jaimie faced John and blinked, then nodded.  “Of course, John.”  She turned back to Mycroft and said, “So sorry to leave like this, but we still have lots to do before Christmas!”  And with that John grabbed his coat and put his hand on her arm, leading her down the stairs.  

As he watched John and Jamie disappear, Sherlock made a mental note to thank John for saving Jaimie from the unpleasantness that was Mycroft.  

“So, that’s _her_ then, is it?” Mycroft sneered, still looking as though he’d stepped in dog mess.    
“Yes, Mycroft, that is Jamie.  The mother of your nephew.”  

Mycroft put on his scolding voice, one which Sherlock had known since he was a child.    
“Sherlock, you simply _cannot_ toy with people like this. Now I am going to have to clean up after this mess because you decided that you would-” he swallowed bitterly, “ _impregnate_ the first common American to walk down Baker Street!  We don’t even know who this woman is, or what she wants! I don’t need to remind you of the mess you made with the Adler situation-”   
  
“Don’t you ever mention _The Woman_ again!” Sherlock got up into Mycroft’s face, shaking with aggression.  

“Hit a nerve, have I Sherlock?” Mycroft stayed cool, dispassionate.    
  
Sherlock realized that he was on tiptoe, coiled in anger and ready to strike.  He stepped back and collected himself, and spoke in a much calmer voice.  

“Since you are showing such a keen interest, Mycroft, Jamie has earned three degrees in psychology.  She is here in London working on her Doctorate, and oh, by the way, she’s a MacArthur grant recipient, based upon the merit of her theories regarding the use of psychological practices in developing nations.”  

“Psychology?” Mycroft raised his eyebrows.  “Of course, it’s the _softest_ of the sciences,” he said disdainfully.  

“Perhaps,” responded Sherlock, “If there had been more of that ‘soft science’ in our home while growing up, we may not have been subjected to so much of Mummy’s...strife.”

Mycroft remained silent, his lips pursed.  Sherlock went in for the coup de grace.    
  
“So after careful study of her personality, behavior and qualifications, I determined that Jamie would be an excellent choice to have a child with.  She concurred, and the child was conceived in the natural way, you see.  Two times, in fact, in an attempt to ensure fertilization.”

Sherlock circled Mycroft like a wild predator circling a helpless prey animal.  He then spoke four words, punctuating each one.   
  
“Who. Is Alarmed. Now?”   
  
He returned to his position before Mycroft and stood triumphantly, daring his brother to speak.  Unfazed, Mycroft leaned on his umbrella.  

“Well, there is a first time for everything, isn’t there, Sherlock? And a second, apparently.  But why?  What on earth made you think that this was an acceptable course of action?  What could you possibly gain from this?”

Sherlock was disappointed that he’d been unable to raise the ire of his brother.  Petulant almost to the point of pouting, he collapsed dramatically onto the sofa and declared,   
“I was bored.”

Mycroft turned his head and studied Sherlock with a gaze which clearly said, “I don’t believe you.”    
  
“I see.  Well, if you’d gone to sex instead of drugs during your earlier bouts with boredom, you might have spared yourself a long and...uncomfortable year in rehabilitation.”  

“Yes, well, Mycroft, one man’s cocaine is another man’s... **cake**.”

Scowling bitterly, Mycroft said, a little too loud,   
  
“I’ll have you know that I weighed exactly 12 stone just this morning.”   
  
Giving Mycroft a calculating glance, Sherlock said “Mmmmm…nope.”   
  
“What do you mean?” Mycroft demanded.   
  
“ 12 stone 4, more like.” Sherlock sniffed. “And anyway, how did you find out about Jamie and the baby?”

“You have your network,”Mycroft replied stiffly, “And I have mine.”

“Can’t be surveillance then, you would have known well before now if you’d still had the flat bugged.” Sherlock asserted.   
  
Mycroft shrugged slightly. “Who says I haven’t known?  Perhaps this was just the most...opportune time to come discuss it with you.”   
  
Sherlock sighed, with a roll of his eyes, and in a flash had propelled himself so that he was sitting bolt upright on the sofa.  He took a deep breath and began a deductive tirade.   
  
“You’ve only just found out because you wouldn’t have been able to resist coming over here and scolding me the moment you knew.  Besides, if you had known and your intent really was to ‘clean up my mess,’ it would have been a far easier ‘mess’ to do away with well before the third trimester.  This leads me to believe you’ve only just found out and, since Jamie has no one here in London to blab to, and I am nothing if not discrete, there is a very small circle of people indeed who have been told of your nephew’s pending arrival.  Someone I know closely must have clued you in and the likeliest person to have spilled the beans is, obviously-”   
  
“Mrs. Hudson!” Mycroft suddenly interjected loudly.

 

Sherlock grinned generously.   
  
“Hmm, nice try, Mycroft, excellent attempt.”   
  
“Whatever do you mean, Sherlock?  You know how it is with gossipy old women-”   
  
“Yes, normally.  But, knowing what I do about your disdain for Mrs. Hudson, I know that you speak to her as seldom as humanly possible and that when she does speak to you she is ignored patently.  Molly Hooper knows, but she’s been in a strop and, what’s more, the morgue puts you off your food so you visit it as seldom as possible.” Sherlock paused just long enough to smirk imperiously at his brother.  “John knows but would never speak of it, Mrs. Hudson has been explained away, which leaves only one man.”   
  
The tiniest trace of apprehension crossed Mycroft’s face, so subtle that no one other than Sherlock could have taken note of it.  

“Why have you been speaking to Lestrade?” Sherlock accused.

“Whom?”   
  
“There’s no need to _play_  at being dumb, Mycroft, when you do it so well naturally.”  

Mycroft stood before him, his lips pressed into a thin line.  As he formulated what to say to Sherlock in response, Sherlock was calculating every possible connection between the Detective Inspector and his brother and stood up suddenly so as to look Mycroft in the eye when he’d come to a conclusion.   
  
“Ah-ha!  While John and I were at Dartmoor investigating Baskerville, Lestrade ‘mysteriously’ turned up.  He tried to say he was on holiday but, owing to the bronze color of his skin, I’d deduced that he’d already been away on holiday.  Just before our trip to Dartmoor I’d tried to reach you and been told that you were away at a diplomatic meeting in Tunisia.  Funnily enough, when we’d returned, I overheard Sally Donovan asking Lestrade where he’d been.  Do you know where he said he went, dear brother Mycroft?”  

“No idea,” said Mycroft, pale but trying hard to look disinterested.  
  
“Tunisia.” Sherlock said icily.    
  
“What are you and Lestrade plotting?” Sherlock demanded.   
Mycroft studied him for a moment.    
“Plotting?  When two men are in the same country at near the same time, it hardly means they are ‘plotting’.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“I hide many things, Sherlock.  None of which are any of your business.”   

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared at Mycroft as though he could get him to spill his secrets through sheer force of will.  Undaunted, Mycroft stared back just as intently.  

“There’s something going on, you're meddling with the police force or _something_ , there’s no other logical explanation for you to have gone off to another country with a Detective Inspector…”  
  
“Sherlock, I never said that we were there at the same time, or even together, for that matter.”   
“There are no coincidences, Mycroft.”  Sherlock responded.

  
“If you’re quite finished, then I’ll be going now.” Mycroft turned on his heel and stalked out of the flat.  Sherlock felt frustrated; he’d only won half of that battle.  Something was going on between Mycroft and Lestrade, and if Mycroft wasn’t going to give up the information, Sherlock was certain he could weasel it out of Greg Lestrade.  

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jamie bond a little while Sherlock and Mycroft argue with one another back in Baker Street. Jamie and John open up to one another, and come to some realizations about their lives with Sherlock.
> 
> ***Also, an addition has been made to the end of the previous chapter; go check it out!

Meanwhile, as Mycroft and Sherlock were verbally sparring in 221B, John and Jamie retrieved her jacket from her flat and they walked out onto the street.    
  
“Thanks, for up there,” Jamie told John.  “I know you’re not my biggest fan, but, I really appreciate what you did back there.”    
John shrugged.   
“Not at all.  No mere mortal should have to face the full wrath of Mycroft Holmes, especially not a pregnant woman.  I’m just glad you’re clever enough to have caught on, you looked baffled for a moment.”  

She chuckled appreciatively.   
“So...where do you want to go?” Jamie asked.  

“I’ll get a cab, there’s some places not too far away I think you’ll like,” John said.  “Mind, this is just what I’ve heard from the nurses at the clinic, but I think we can give it a go.”    
“I’d like that very much, John,” Jamie smiled genuinely.  John hailed a cab and they climbed in, speeding away from the warring Holmeses.  

Several miles passed in companionable, if not entirely comfortable, silence.  They came to a stop near a shopping district, with plenty of cute boutiques.

“Figured,” John said, hands crammed into his pockets, “That you still had a fair bit of shopping to do, with Christmas coming up, and this is as good a place as any, if I’ve heard right.”  
Jamie gave him a grateful smile, trying to ease him out of his shell.  “Well, I don’t have as much shopping as I would have thought this year, but thank you.” she said, a touch of wistfulness in her voice.    
“What do you mean?”  John scrunched his forehead, looking concerned. “You’ve been talking about it since the summer, your mates from America were coming over to celebrate with you.”    
Jamie shrugged and sighed before speaking.   
“Well, how would it sound to you, John, if one of your best friends moved away to a different country and within two months was pregnant with a sociopath’s baby?  If you’re the kind of person my friends are, you’d march right over here and kick the shit out of Sherlock and drag me back to America.  It’s easier this way.  The baby will come in March, he will be yours and Sherlock’s, and I will be free and clear of my responsibility.  By the time next Christmas rolls around, there should be no outward signs that I’ve given birth at all.”  

Slow to understand, John asked.   
“You mean...you’re not telling your friends back home...about _any_  of this?”  He looked incredulous.    
“Nope,” Jamie said with a shrug and a wry grin.  “Like I said, how can I explain this in a phone call or an email without sounding nuts, or like I am in danger somehow?  The easiest way around it was to just tell them that I had a Psychiatry conference in Dublin the day after Christmas and that there was no way I could host them this year, but that next year is a definite.”  

John shook his head slowly in disbelief.

“And Sherlock...he has no idea, does he?”

Jamie looked into his eyes penetratingly, resignation written all over her face.    
“John,  am I a crime scene?  Am I an Army Doctor named John Watson? No, I’m neither.  And in Sherlock’s universe, that means that I am just a means to an end.  There are two things that matter to Sherlock Holmes, and one of them is standing in front of me.”  

John looked pained.   
“No, come on Jamie, don’t say that…” he trailed off, anger shadowing his face.  “Bastard!”  John exclaimed.    
“How dare he, you know?  He’s got a lot of nerve, sweeping into all of our lives and turning everything upside down and I don’t know who I hate more, him for doing it, or me, for going and falling in love with the sod.”  

Jamie linked arms with him and they began to walk.    
“Don’t hate yourself, John.  There’s no need to apologize for your feelings.  You’ve done nothing wrong here.  He’s...magnetic, there is no doubt about that.  Do we enable him?  Probably, in some ways, yes.  But don’t ever feel bad for loving and for being loved, okay?”

“He’s such an arse,” John mused, frustratedly.

“You have a huge opportunity and a big burden, John,” Jamie said, pausing to look at his face.  “You’re the one who humanizes him.  It will never be an easy road, but it _will_ be an interesting one, and if there was ever anyone who was tailor made for it, it’s you.”  They continued walking in silence until they came upon a shop Jamie wanted to look in.

“Thanks,” John said, barely above a whisper, as he opened the door for her.  She smiled and nodded in understanding.  

John Watson had thought that he was outside of his element out there on the street, talking about his feelings.  But that was nothing compared to how deeply uncomfortable he felt inside the shop, which had proven to be full of things for babies and children.  Standing ramrod straight, it was obvious that he was desperately wishing to be camouflaged.  Granted, in this situation his camouflage would need to be composed of bunnies and teddy bears, but he would have accepted it happily.  

Jamie sensed his discomfort and tried to draw him out of his shell.  She plucked a tiny knit jumper off of a shelf and held it up to John, smirking.   
“Oh no, Sherlock’s gone and done the laundry again!” She teased with mock horror.  John laughed in spite of himself and began to loosen up.  He followed, somewhat reluctantly, as she browsed through the baby clothes.  When the two of them walked past a full-length mirror, Jamie did a double-take and stopped in her tracks.    
  
“John,” she said, her voice low and wavering a bit.   
“I...just had an epiphany.”    
Concerned, John turned around and stood next to her, gazing at their reflections.  

“Look at us, John.  Really, look at us. You’re me. Actually, reverse that, John.  I’m you.”    
  
He stared into the mirror, really truly seeing himself and Jamie side-by-side for the first time.  The resemblances were uncanny.  So uncanny, in fact, that there was hardly any doubt as to why Sherlock had chosen Jamie to have his child.   John and Jamie both had sandy blond hair, hers with a touch more brown and his with silver scattered here and there.  Where John’s nose was pronounced hers was small and round, yet they both had captivating, ready smiles.  Both were on the short side, and sturdy of build.  Perhaps most interestingly, they seemed to share the same sort of eye color: a sort of blue with dark streaks, the shade of which changed often.  

“Well,” Jamie sighed after an awkward silence.  “Maybe it’s comforting for you to know that Sherlock has a type.”    
“D’you suppose,” John began, “That all this got started because you look like me?”    
“Can there really be any doubt, John?”

John stood up straight, took a deep breath and looked at the two of them in the mirror once again.    
“So I suppose Sherlock has felt...a certain way for far longer than I’ve ever known,” he mused.

“So much so that when I came along, the wheels were set in motion,” Jamie agreed.  

And with that realization, a tentative bond began to form between John and Jamie.  They’d probably never be best mates, but they felt a certain kinship, as though they’d both been conscripted into Sherlock’s Army and they’d have to bond together in order to survive the experience.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jamie makes new Christmas plans, reflects back on how she told Mrs. Hudson about her impending arrival, and John and Sherlock share a moment that will change their lives. <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally after a one-month absence, another update! I am so thrilled and excited to be back with these characters, in this world. My thanks to everyone who has given me feedback so far - I hope that you all love this chapter as much as I do.  
> :-)

For Jamie, the bright spot in the lead-up to the holidays was knowing she’d get to spend some quality time with Molly.  Their relationship was progressing, albeit much more slowly than the relationship John and Sherlock shared.  Granted, Molly and Jamie hadn’t had years of pent-up sexual frustration simmering between them, either.  Jamie's disappointment at not hosting her American friends remained, but she quelled her sadness by throwing herself into planning a modest gathering for the residents of 221 Baker Street.  Her feelings where Sherlock was concerned were still raw, and she was downright tetchy whenever he appeared.  Still, she was itching to let loose her inner Martha Stewart, and the few friends she had at the university would be away.  So she informed Molly, and all at the Baker Street house, that she would be hosting a small gathering on Christmas Eve night.  

Mrs. Hudson came round early on Christmas Eve, determined to do whatever she was able to lessen the burden on Jamie.  The pleasant, easy friendship they'd begun when Jamie moved in had continued.  Jamie looked upon Mrs. Hudson as a treasured, if nosy, aunt.  They often bonded over their experiences of and memories of America.  

Jamie let her mind wander back to the day she told Mrs. Hudson that, not only was Jamie expecting, the child belonged to Sherlock and would be raised by he and John.  

 

"Mrs. Hudson," Jamie began one day, "How do you feel about children?  Specifically, children here at Baker Street?"  

"Well, those young men who hang about on the corner doing nothing all day are a nuisance, and Mr. Chatterjee has had to run them off from in front of his shop more than once.  Besides, who wants to raise a child right here, in the middle of London?  Children need open air and large back gardens, and-"

Realizing she'd started to rant, Mrs. Hudson paused and noticed that Jamie had lifted the bulky jumper she'd been wearing, revealing a white undershirt.  She'd placed a hand gently on her own round belly.  

Mrs. Hudson gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

"You-you're?"

"Pregnant, yes.  Several months along.  You might want to sit down for this next part."

Doing as she was told, Mrs. Hudson plopped down into a kitchen chair and drank deeply from a nearby teacup.

"I don't understand, I didn't think you had...somebody in your life, and you're still so new to London, dear, are you going to keep the baby?  I mean, what with your doctorate and all-"

Jamie silenced Mrs. Hudson gently and spoke.

"Yes, I am going to have the baby.  And here's where the sitting-down part comes in.  The parents of this child, the ones who will raise him or her, are Sherlock and John."

Mrs. Hudson only paused in shock for a moment before, much to Jamie's surprise, bursting out into riotous laughter.  Between giggles she spoke.

"Oh!  Dear, you really had me on, didn't you?  Sherlock and John, for heaven's sakes!  Those two couldn't raise...an iguana, much less a child!  You looked so serious, too!"

Wiping away a tear of laughter, Mrs. Hudson became somber when she saw that Jamie's face had remained stoic and serious.  

"You're...no, no, how is this possible?"  The blood ran from her face as she realized that the young woman before her was completely serious.  

Jamie sighed and, having grown accustomed to British custom, asked "Shall I switch the kettle on, Mrs. H?"

The older woman nodded, somewhat absentmindedly, and rested her chin in her hand.  

"What happened?"  

Jamie took a deep breath.

"Well, the very simplified version is that Sherlock and John are a couple."

"No surprise there."  Mrs. Hudson interjected.  "I was young and flush with hormones once too, I see the way those two look at each other, I always have.  It's about time they went and admitted it.  But do go on dear, please."  

"Well, so basically, Sherlock wanted to start a family with John - it's something John has thought of, ever since coming back from the war.  So I agreed to have a baby with Sherlock, a child he and John could raise together."

"So, you're...a surrogate then, dear?"  Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Well, yes, exactly."

"Did he take advantage of you?"  Mrs. Hudson's demeanor grew stony. "If that boy hurt you..." She gritted her teeth.  

"Mrs. H, calm down, it is okay.  He and I are working things out.  There was, admittedly, a little drama, but we are working on it.  The main thing to know is that I am carrying this child for Sherlock and John, and that their intention is to raise it here at Baker Street."

"And when were they planning to tell me this?!” Mrs Hudson demanded indignantly.  “When they wheel the pram in, shouting, 'Surprise'?"

"Soon.  They were going to tell you soon.  I just took it upon myself to get it out of the way because John is still incredibly awkward about this whole thing, and Sherlock, well, he's Sherlock.  He would have breezed in here, telling you he was going to be a father, raided the biscuit tin and left.  I wanted you to hear it from...a different source.  And seeing as how I am showing now, you would have figured it out eventually anyway."  

Mrs Hudson shook her head slowly, still wrapping her mind around what she'd just been told.

"So, what you're telling me, is that Sherlock and John are together, a couple, and that you are having a baby for them that they can raise, as a family, here in Baker Street.  Am I caught up?"

Jamie patted Mrs. Hudson's hand affectionately.

"Precisely." She affirmed.

Still in a bit of shock, Mrs. Hudson robotically made herself a cup of tea and sat back down.  The color began to return to her face and a smile played at her lips when she spoke again.

"There's going to be a little baby, living here, in my house!  When I started taking lodgers I'd really never imagined, you know, this isn't quite the neighborhood for it, but oh, it is a bit exciting, isn't it?  Little nappies and toys...Are you excited dear?  How's the pregnancy?  Is everything normal?  I suppose I should move the bins to make a little play area round the back-"

"Mrs. Hudson," Jamie interrupted her reverie.  "Everything is fine.  The pregnancy is, well, about as normal as pregnancies get, and so far the scans look healthy.  We'll be finding out the sex in a week or two. "

Jamie brought her mind back to the present and observed as Mrs. Hudson rolled out dough for Christmas cookies. She still wasn’t convinced that having a Christmas get-together was a wise idea, but she was committed now.    
  
Upstairs in 221B, John tied his shoes and looked up at Sherlock, still in his dressing gown on the sofa.    
  
“Going to Jamie’s like that, then?”  He asked, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Remind me why we’re doing this?” Sherlock huffed.   
“Because she’s alone here at Christmas, thanks to you, and it’s a nice thing to do.” John stood up and hovered over Sherlock’s prone form.    
  
“Ugh...socializing.  It’s a made-up holiday, a made up excuse for people to pretend to be nice to one another.  Boring.”

“Oh, like it’s not bloody awkward as hell for me to be civil to the woman my boyfriend knocked up?”

Petulantly, Sherlock responded.   
“Oh, for the last time, I only did it for yo-”   
“Sherlock Holmes, say that you got into this mess ‘for me’ one more time and so help me, I’ll…”    
“You’ll what?”  Sherlock challenged, leaping to his feet.

“Mad,” John said, sardonic amusement lurking in his face.  He pressed his lips into a thin line and took a breath before speaking again.   
“I must be mad for being part of any of this, for not just walking the hell away.  But I am here, Sherlock, because against all my better judgment I love you.  You’ve got to meet me halfway on some of this.  I won’t spend the whole of our private life the way our public one goes - you dash about like a madman and I follow.  When it comes to me, you - - us - - you have got to meet me halfway on some of this!”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted back and forth as he processed what he’d just been told.   
“The whole of our private life, John?”

The shorter man licked his lips.   
“Yeah, that’s what I said, isn’t it?”    
Sherlock paused again for a moment, calculating.   
“Meaning...you want to be together for the rest of our lives?”

“Sherlock, if you don’t come to the point and tell me what you’re getting at, the rest of your life will be incredibly short.”

Sherlock nodded once, then dashed into the bedroom they now shared without another word.  John stood, massaging the deep lines in his forehead, until Sherlock returned.  

He dashed back from the other room and produced a posh-looking leatherette box from behind his back, thrusting it into John’s hands.  He took an enormous breath and spoke before he lost his nerve.

“John Watson, John Hamish Watson.  There are many ways in which to go about this, each of them more cliched than the last. After extensive research I’ve determined that there is no preconceived way of going about this that fits our situation.  That being said, do please forgive me as I ‘wing it.’”   
Sherlock took another deep breath to steady himself and continued on.    
  
‘John, you...you keep me where I need to be.  In so many ways.  You put up with the absurd, the ridiculous, the impossible, and through it all you remain stoic and firm, my anchor.  You’ve brought things into my life I never knew I needed, and that is why I would be so very lost without you.  That is why I stand before you today and say that I would be the most fortunate man in London if you would do me the honor of being my husband.”  

John was completely gobsmacked.  A million-no, probably a billion- different things went through his head all at the same time.  How his life was not supposed to be like this, how he was supposed to be getting on his knee and asking a woman to be his bride, and what would his army buddies think, and how could this be happening, and was this really happening?  But all those concerns vanished as soon as they arose.  What John was left with was a nearly overwhelming wave of gratitude, and of love.  Certainly, Sherlock Holmes was the most exasperating human being he’d ever encountered in his life.  He was also the most magnetic, the most exciting, the most recklessly daring and the most intelligent.  He was the one John couldn’t imagine his life without, nor would he want to.

John grinned, and sniffed back tears that were threatening to form in his eyes, and hugged Sherlock hard around the neck.   
“Of course I will, you bastard.”  

Sherlock pulled away and they gazed into one another’s eyes for a long moment, grinning like fools.  Sherlock gave John a quick kiss and said,   
“You can open your gift now.”    
  
John had entirely forgotten about the small box in his hand, and he looked down at it with intrigue. He opened it to find an exquisite St. Gallen doctor’s watch, complete with timers for respiration and pulse rate.  He broke into a wide grin and said with awe,   
“Sherlock, this...this is amazing!  I never in a million years...wow.”  He chuckled, gratitude all over his face.    
“That’s not quite all,” Sherlock nudged.  “Turn it over.”    
John plucked the watch from its satin lining and turned it over to find an engraving.    
 _“Only a fool argues with his doctor.”_

Moved to tears, he laughed and grabbed Sherlock up into a hug once again.    
“Thank you,” he said into Sherlock’s ear. “Thank you for changing my life, thank you for making it the adventure I’d always wished it could be.”  He pulled away and looked Sherlock in the eye.  
“I love you,” he said.   
“And I love you, John,” replied Sherlock.  “And now, I believe, there’s a party I need to be getting dressed for?”  With a wink and a smile he turned and headed back into their bedroom, disrobing as he went.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg's backstory, and how they will be spending their Christmas. Hint: it's very naughty. ;-)

While all at Baker Street were consumed with thoughts of Christmas and commitment, Mycroft Holmes was more than ready for the relaxation he’d promised himself.  Sliding elegantly into the luxury car which was waiting for him outside his office, he gave his driver an address and allowed his eyes to close briefly as the heated leather seat caressed his frame.  The car came to a stop and he emerged at the Haymarket, where he checked into a room clutching only an Hermes garment bag.  He opened the bag in the privacy of his suite and sighed deeply when he saw what was inside: rough denim jeans, a souvenir t-shirt, baseball cap and puffy jacket.  Mycroft gritted his teeth and began to undress, wishing fervently that Anthea wasn’t quite so adept at choosing disguises that would allow him to blend in with the common man.

 

The look of disgust never left his face as he pulled on the distasteful clothing, shuddering when the rough, cheap fabric touched his skin.  His only consolation was that he would not be wearing this hideous disguise for long, and that what waited for him when the clothes were shed was well worth any momentary discomfort.  Mycroft jammed the baseball cap onto his head and headed out, leaving any traces of the sophisticated government official behind in the posh hotel suite.  

His gait changed as he walked, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and shoulders slightly slumped.  By the time he was strolling through a service entrance for hotel staff, and out onto the streets of London, he was just one more common, invisible bloke.  He descended the stairs down to an Underground station and got on the tube - common blokes in cheap trainers were far more likely to catch the tube than a cab - on his way across London.  The route he took to his destination was convoluted, nonsensical, and it involved some tracking back.  Mycroft needed to ensure he wasn’t being followed or observed, and once he was satisfied that there was no possible way he’d been tracked, he set off on the final leg of his destination.  The whole time he was down there, below London, thoughts of what -and who- were waiting for him were what sustained him and kept him from fleeing back to his posh suite, a luxurious shower, and his Savile Row suit.  

 

Emerging from the Underground station, he slouched his way to a mid-range hotel and entered a side door, his heart beginning to pound with anticipation the closer he came to his goal.  An elevator ride took him to the third floor and once he emerged out into the hallway, he noticed with a smile that the telltale red light of the security camera recording the comings and goings in the hallway was dark - he would be able to come and go freely without being observed.  Feeling chuffed, he made a mental note to thank Anthea: this definitely made up for the miserable wardrobe.  

 

Coming to a stop in front of room 317, Mycroft removed the room’s key card from his wallet but before he had a chance to swipe it beneath the door handle, the door was being thrown open and Mycroft was being pulled swiftly into the room by the collar of his cheap, ugly jacket.  

 

The door slammed behind him and his mouth was instantly assaulted.  A rough chin scraped against his smooth, impeccably shaved face, and a pair of thin, surprisingly soft lips captured his own.  He was unable to make a sound as a tongue invaded his mouth and teeth nipped at him.  The mouth tasted faintly of coffee, and something else...was it nicotine?   Mycroft pulled away from the rough embrace to scold.    
  
“Smoking again, Greg?”    
Greg Lestrade took a step back and opened his mouth to defend himself, but before he could, he got his first full look at Mycroft’s complete disguise. The apologetic defensiveness faded from his face and was replaced with unabashed amusement.  He looked Mycroft up and down, taking in the entire look, and then doubled over with guffaws.  Mycroft set his jaw and scowled down at Greg.    
“Being the source of ridicule was not on my agenda this evening.” he said with the barest hint of a threat.  

Greg wiped a tear from his eye and stood upright again.    
“Mycroft, I am so sorry, it’s just...have you seen yourself?!”    
“Yes...my assistant was perhaps a bit too keen to make me look common.”

“She did a bang up job.”  Greg shook his head, still in disbelief, before stepping toward Mycroft once more and tugging at the slippery polyester jacket.  Greg’s voice lowered and was filled with innuendo the next time he spoke.    
“As amusing as this is, I want to see my Mycroft, the one only I get to see…”  
He tossed away Mycroft’s baseball cap and tugged at the jacket’s zip.  Relief flooded Mycroft’s posture and he helped Greg do away with the rest of the itchy, unfortunate-looking garments.  

Once Mycroft stood before him in nothing but pants, Greg studied him for a moment and clucked his tongue appreciatively.    
“You make my mouth water,” he said huskily.  

Mycroft, still not completely ready to leave mundane life behind, began to speak.    
“There is so much to be discussed, plans and arrangements must be made for--” his diatribe was cut off abruptly when Greg pressed a strong, rugged palm to his lips.    
“Shh.  Not now.  Right now, all that matters is this.  Right here.”  He pressed his body into Mycroft’s, ensuring that Mycroft could feel the heat and pressure of his erection through his trousers.  Mycroft swallowed audibly and nodded once, and Greg pulled his hand away.

With one hand tracing patterns up and down Mycroft’s torso, and the other hand busily unfastening his trousers, Greg spoke low into his ear.    
“You’re mine tonight.  I’m gonna use you for my pleasure and you are only going to come if I say you can.  Oh, I am going to have you.  I am going to have you in ways that would shock Parliament, if they knew what a submissive little whore you are.”

Heat rising both in his face and in his pants, Mycroft snorted and said in response,   
“The House of Commons is full of pederasts and the House of Lords was practically built upon incest.  I doubt what you have planned could shock them.”  

Greg reached out a hand and popped Mycroft lightly across the mouth.    
“I don’t recall asking you to speak.  You will do exactly as I say, and only as I say.”  He leaned in, his lips brushing Mycroft’s ear as he whispered,   
“The safeword is ‘briefcase,’ love.  Nod once if you understand.”  

Mycroft nodded once, and Greg rewarded him with a gentle, probing kiss before pulling away and grabbing him by the hand, leading him to the bed where a delicious assortment of erotic implements awaited them.

                                                               

Greg Lestrade was a sharp, intelligent man surrounded by sharper, more intelligent men.  Had he been the only big fish in his proverbial small pond, he would be at the very top of his profession.  As it was, he was disempowered in his job by the logical gymnastics of Sherlock Holmes, and he was a cuckolded husband at home.  Lesser men would have fallen by the wayside to drink themselves into self-pitying stupor, but that was not Greg’s way.  He worked his arse off, and stayed with his unfaithful wife because to him, it was the right thing to do.  Still, the sting of his essentially powerless existence haunted him from time to time.  Enter Mycroft Holmes.    
  
Mycroft Holmes, one of the most influential and powerful men no one’s ever heard of, held an intricate web of control over everything and everyone in his path.  He’d strived for this power, he reveled in it, he relinquished any sort of personal or family life in exchange for it, and yet there were times he desperately wished to put down the reins of control.  Enter Greg Lestrade.    
  
Being two of the only constants in Sherlock’s life for a number of years, it was inevitable that they would meet.  Their lives began circling closer and closer together until one day when Mycroft’s long black car was waiting outside Scotland Yard for the Detective Inspector himself.    
  
Truly surprised, Greg entered the car and sat facing Mycroft.   
“Sherlock’s not using, he’s been working a case for me.”    
“I’m quite aware, Detective Inspector...may I call you Greg?”   
Greg nodded dryly and Mycroft continued, brandishing a manila envelope and passing it over.  
“I’m afraid your wife has been rather...dismissive of marital fidelity, Greg.”    
Greg opened the envelope and studied its contents briefly before replacing them and tossing the bundle back onto the seat next to Mycroft.    
“Look, no offense mate, I may not be as keen as your brother, but I am a bloody Detective Inspector, they don’t just hand these badges out with a packet of crisps.  I earned my job, I’m damned good at it, and of course I’ve known about Marie...carrying on.  It’s just, I’ve got kids, and she’s a damned good mum even if she’s a shit wife.”

Mycroft pondered for a moment before responding.    
“And do you...carry on?”    
“Even if I were the kind to cheat, my work hardly leaves the time.  And I’m not about to throw away 15 years’ toil at Scotland Yard for a shag with a co-worker.”

Mocroft nodded disinterestedly and turned his attention to the scenery passing by.  A few moments passed before Greg broke the silence.   
“So what’s this all about, then?”    
Mycroft turned his attention back to Greg, his demeanor slightly different.    
“Interest,” Mycroft said obtusely.

“In what?  Bloody hell, are all Holmeses this difficult to communicate with?”  

Greg was shocked to hear laughter coming from the stern, posh man in front of him.

"I'm sorry, I was just thinking of Mother," Mycroft explained.  "She was...the epitome of a difficult woman.  Have lunch with me, Greg?"

"I still don't understand all this interest in me all of a sudden," Greg said with more than a hint of suspicion.

"If you object, my driver will take you wherever you need to be," Mycroft offered.

Greg shrugged it off.

"Hell, why not?  You're buying though."

Greg and Mycroft enjoyed a meal together that was at times companionable and at times quite awkward indeed.  Greg found Mycroft to be quite funny when he let his guard down, and Mycroft enjoyed getting Greg's working-class perspective on all manner of subjects.  Months passed and the frequency of their secretive meetings increased, until one night after a wine-soaked evening at Mycroft's club, Greg found himself being properly snogged by the Iceman himself.  He'd long since decided that if Mycroft made a move for him he'd gladly accept - he was not above homosexual dalliances and it certainly felt nice to be wined, dined, appreciated and listened to from time to time.  

They'd been secretly sleeping together for a year when they began to experiment with a dom/sub relationship, finding that it fulfilled deep, unspoken needs in them both.  Mycroft reveled in the giving up of his control, and Greg's ego was inflated every time he clasped that collar round Mycroft's neck and led him round like a dog.  Of course, the subversive nature of their relationship meant that everything needed to be kept as clandestine as possible.  Luckily, Mycroft specialized in the clandestine, the unseen pulling of strings, and their relationship abided, a thrilling secret that only they shared.  

They had indeed been in Tunisia together, as Sherlock had suspected.  However, it was not matters of government policy or policing London that had brought them there:  it was sun, champagne, and a week of raunchy, debauched sex.  

  
Back in the present moment, Mycroft filed away his ideas for ensuring that his relationship with Greg remained out of the watchful gaze of his younger brother.  Certainly, the fact that his brother was in a relationship of his own, and with a child on the way, no less, made Mycroft’s job a lot easier.  However, all thoughts of anyone but Greg left his head the moment he felt the thick leather collar being buckled around his neck.  “A very merry Christmas indeed,” he thought wryly to himself as he felt the sting of leather across his bare skin.  


	22. Chapter 22

As the sun began to set on Christmas Eve at 221B, John and Sherlock arrived at Jamie’s flat, holding hands. Jamie noticed immediately and gave them both a sly little smile and a nod. But before she could open her mouth to greet them, Mrs. Hudson came out from the kitchen in a flash.  
“Boys!” she exclaimed, opening her arms wide and collecting them both in a hug.  
She stepped back and sized up the both of them. John, slightly shorter and dressed in a festive jumper, was looking more than a bit bashful and uncomfortable under her scrutiny. Sherlock, well - he looked like Sherlock. He had, it seemed, the same detached and calculating view of everything and everyone around him. Surprisingly, however, Mrs. Hudson broke out into a wide grin which made her look very pleased indeed.  
“He’s good for you Sherlock,” she asserted. “You’ve got more color to your cheeks, dear.”  
Sherlock had his mouth open to reply sarcastically when John clenched his hand more tightly and dug in his fingernails. Shooting John a dark look, Sherlock merely gave Mrs. Hudson a polite little nod and a smile and went off to raid the kitchen. 

“So it’s just us then, yeah?” John asked.  
“Well, Molly should be along shortly, but yes, it’s just us. I think you mentioned wanting to invite your friend Greg?”  
“I did, yeah,” John replied, “But he--”  
“He’s up to something!” Sherlock interjected rudely from the kitchen, mouth half-full of a Christmas pastry.  
John pursed his lips.  
“Sherlock, just because a man doesn’t answer his phone doesn’t mean he is up to something! It’s bloody Christmas, he’s probably mucking about with his children.”  
“Nope,” Sherlock said, more clearly now that he’d swallowed his food. “His wife took the children on holiday with her extended family. He was moaning about it about a month ago to anyone who would listen. Owing to the fact that he has not checked in with the Yard for nearly two days, combined with his lack of response to calls or texts, one can obviously deduce that the inspector is engaged in some subterfuge. For his sake I do hope he’s not in over his head, he should know better than to go off investigating without consulting me.” Sherlock idly picked pastry crumbs off his lapels, feeling confident that everyone would simply take his word as law. 

Before any of them could say anything to the contrary, the buzzer rang, signaling Molly’s arrival. Jamie’s hands flew to her hair, smoothing it, and arranging her clothes as best as she could, clearly wanting to look her best.  
Mrs. Hudson gave her an indulgent, motherly grin.  
“Oh I do love you young people! Go ahead dear, sort yourself out and I’ll open the door for your special guest.” Still grinning, Mrs. Hudson gently pushed Jamie in the direction of her bedroom before heading over to answer the door. 

 

The evening went by surprisingly well, in large part to Jamie and Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. John couldn't recall a time when he’d seen Sherlock eat so much, although he was certainly glad that his fiance had: Sherlock’s pale gauntness was starting to make him strongly resemble a Dickensian Christmas ghost.

After supper they gathered in Jamie’s mismatched but comfortable chairs and sofa in front of the fire. 

“Shall we have a drink, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked.  
“Oh!” Jamie jumped up and exclaimed. “I almost forgot!” She excitedly dashed over to a darkened corner of the room and turned on a lamp, illuminating what she’d hidden.  
When Jamie stepped back from the corner with a flourish, her guests were treated to a charming, if not unusual sight. A tiny tree, barely more than a twig, had been affixed to a stand. Its three sad little branches drooped, and a single shining red Christmas bulb dangled from the strongest of the three branches. Jamie smiled broadly, clearly expecting some sort of response from her guests. Before John could more to stop him, Sherlock spoke up.  
“Hm. Good thing the meal wasn’t as tasteless as the decor.”  
Jamie shot him an ugly look and gave an exasperated sigh.  
“It’s supposed to look like that. It’s a Charlie Brown tree!” After an awkward silence, she mumbled, “Must be an American thing. But anyway, it is from a cartoon where Charlie Brown has to choose a Christmas tree and he chooses the tiniest one because Christmas is supposed to be about more than big trees and fancy gifts…” She trailed off with a shrug.  
Molly hopped up from her place on the sofa and went to Jamie, giving her a warm hug.  
“Well I think it is quite sweet,” she said, giving Jamie’s hands a squeeze. Jamie smiled gratefully and said,  
“Now speaking of gifts, I know I didn’t say anything, but I was dying to do a little shopping.” She began rummaging through the small stack of wrapped boxes next to the tiny tree. Jamie passed the first one to Mrs. Hudson and said, “You get to open the first one since you helped me so much with dinner.”  
Mrs. Hudson blushed and thanked her, then opened the box to reveal a beautiful apron with a matching fingertip towel resting in the apron’s frilled pocket. As she unfolded it to show it off, she was delighted to see that there was a fine embroidery on the inside that made her laugh. 

“You might want to read it out loud, Mrs. Hudson!” Jamie said.  
“It says, ‘Not your housekeeper!’” Mrs. Hudson said with a grin. 

Jamie then passed a package to Molly and placed a kiss on her cheek.  
“Merry Christmas, Molly.” 

Molly blushed fiercely and accepted the box with thanks. Within it she found two bottles of a fine muscat wine from California nestled among a cashmere blanket. 

“Not going for subtle, are we?” Sherlock quipped, looking at the two women knowingly. Molly just sat down, looking flustered, and John nudged him.  
“I mean, it’s all just so contrived, isn’t it? These social rituals, we take our places and say lines like actors in a play but it’s all quite meaningless, isn’t it?”  
Mrs. Hudson scowled deeply at Sherlock and said soothingly to Jamie,  
“It’s all lovely dear, really it is.” 

Shoulders a bit slumped, Jamie retrieved one more package and handed it over to John.  
“Merry Christmas, John,” she said softly.  
He gave her a grateful look and opened his box to find a fine leather laptop sleeve, just the right size to protect his computer. He marveled at it before giving her a smile and standing up to give her a quick squeeze.  
“Bloody thoughtful of you, Jamie. Thanks.”  
Looking very pleased, she squeezed him back. 

An awkward silence settled in among them as they all realized that there was only Sherlock remaining. Jamie fidgeted for a moment, then retrieved one more package from under the tree. She passed it to Sherlock, barely looking in his direction. 

“I debated,” she said, “But it turns out that I just can’t be that rude. Happy Pretend Day, Sherlock.” She was already turning away and moving back toward Molly as she pressed the package into his hands. He pulled at the ribbon holding it together and the plain paper fell away. He was stricken with surprise at how perfect her choices had been: an antiquated book about lichens and a handsomely bound text which compiled antique maps of London. 

Much to John’s surprise, without any prompting Sherlock stood and crossed the room, helping Jamie up off the couch and pulling her into an awkward, if heartfelt, embrace. He pressed his lips to her ear and whispered, just barely loud enough for her to hear. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I know,” she responded just as softly. 

He pulled away and they regarded one another for a moment before he asked, “Forgive me?” After a deep breath and a smirk, Jamie responded.  
“Tolerate you.”  
They both grinned and sat back down. That’s when Molly offered to share her wine and they sipped for a couple of hours, listening to Molly, Mrs. Hudson and John tell stories of Christmases past. The fire was dying down and the conversation lulled when Jamie stretched exaggeratedly. She put down her own cup of tea and said,  
“As lovely as this has been, I am one tired pregnant lady. And my Christmas wish happens to be to spend time with a certain beautiful girl until she has to go to her family in the morning, so I’m gonna have to say goodnight.”  
With a smile she led everyone out the door and heaved a big sigh, leaning against the door with relief.  
“Went well, all things considered…” she mused.

It seemed, however, that Molly had things other than talking on her mind. The Christmas drinks having gone to her head a bit, Molly giggled and shyly took Jamie by the hand, leading her to the sofa and pulling her down for a snog.  
Molly’s kissing was more passionate than it had ever been before, there was an urgency in her that Jamie wanted to make sure wasn’t just the wine. 

Jamie pulled away and said,  
“You know I want this Molly, but are you too drunk right now?”  
Molly sat up and looked at Jamie soberly.  
“I’m tipsy,” she said honestly. “But I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do. The wine...just helped me relax a bit, that’s all. I’m feeling more bold about showing you...what I want.”  
Jamie nodded and, words failing her, leaned in so she was mostly leaning on top of Molly and kissed her skillfully. Molly melted into her and they both giggled after Molly found she needed to reach around Jamie’s belly in order to envelop her in a hug. Jamie’s pregnancy had definitely been a speed bump on the road to her being intimate with Molly.  
However, that night they were up for trying. Jamie made out with Molly, kissing her deeply and running her hands up and down her sides. She hesitated for a moment before laying a small trail of kisses down Molly’s neck, heading for her breasts. They’d never gone this far before and Jamie wanted to be certain Molly was ready.  
A breathy moan and the arching of her body told Jamie everything she needed to know about Molly’s readiness. Jamie pulled the V-neck of Molly’s top down to expose more of her cleavage and kissed the valley between her breasts. When the teasing reached a fever pitch, Jamie pulled away and said huskily,  
“Bedroom?” Molly nodded in response and they went to bed together, hand in hand. 

Once inside Jamie’s bedroom they stopped and regarded one another.  
“You sure?” Jamie asked once again.  
Molly nodded and Jamie responded softly,  
“Then let me take care of you.”  
Jamie put on a dim bedside lamp and guided Molly closer to the bed. She helped pull off her top and shivered visibly when she saw her first glimpse of Molly’s small round breasts. She took one pert nipple into her mouth and sucked gently, brushing her fingertips back and forth across the other. 

Soon, Molly had let her head fall back and a moan escaped her lips. Jamie eased her down onto the bed gently and let her hands roam from top to bottom. She grazed Molly’s neck ever so gently with her teeth and fingertips, traced her collarbones, and let her hands wander where they would. Finally, Jamie knelt and parted Molly’s pale thighs. It had been so, so long since she'd properly been with someone, and a surge of hormones made her want to let her passion run loose and wild. But physical limitations and Molly's newness to same-sex attraction kept Jamie relatively vanilla: she comforted herself with thoughts of wildly passionate, intimate nights to come.  
She focused her attention back on the perfect thighs she found herself kneeling between, kissing them moistly, back and forth, never quite reaching their apex. When she heard Molly moan and felt her arch her hips as a way to beg for more, she went further, using her mouth and hands to tease the soft pubic mound through the cotton panties she still wore.  
She still hadn’t made any attempt to remove Molly’s panties when she heard her take a gasping, shuddering breath. Concerned, Jamie lifted her head and shot a questioning look. 

“Um, does it always...take this much time?” Molly asked bashfully. “Being, being with a woman, that is. Like, lesbian sex, is it always...like this?” She was red-faced and embarrassed, but Jamie was glad she spoke up.  
“It doesn’t have to be anything, my beautiful little bird. You can have me slow down or speed up, whatever you like. Was I teasing too much?”

“I dunno, I just - it’s just that no one has ever taken so much time on, on me before, and it’s different, that’s all.”  
A line of concern wrinkled Jamie’s smooth forehead and she crawled up into the bed beside Molly, allowing her to arrange herself comfortably. 

“It sounds like you’ve been missing out,” Jamie said pointedly. She looked at Molly tenderly as she lay there, self consciously. 

“It...it all just felt so wonderful and I don’t know how I am ever going to make you feel that way, because I’ve never done this before and I don’t know how to make another woman feel good, and you made me feel so good, and my knickers weren’t even off, and-” 

Jamie shushed her with a gentle smile and an equally gentle kiss.  
“You know how to get yourself off, don’t you? What you like and don’t like when you are alone or with a man?”  
“Well, yeah,” Molly replied.  
“Then do that,” Jamie offered. “If you are more comfortable exploring right now, then so be it. Maybe the spotlight was shining on you a little too brightly.” Her voice was understanding, her gestures genuine. 

“Really? You sure I won’t hurt you-”

Jamie sat up and looked at Molly intently.  
“Do you have any idea how sexually frustrated I’ve been for the last 6 months?” Jamie’s voice was tinged with a comical level of eagerness, and the tension fizzled into a gale of giggles. Molly felt more at ease once their laughter died down, and they spent the rest of the night talking, kissing and exploring, giving neither a thought nor a care to the world outside that room. It was nearly dawn on Christmas morning before they finally drifted off to sleep, naked bodies pressed together sweetly and a haze of euphoria surrounding them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who has stuck around. My health took a turn for the worse this Spring and that had to be dealt with, but these characters have been coming to me saying, "It's time to let us go," so I fixed up some plot points that needed to be done, and now we are barreling toward this being a finished work. Thank you all!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter melts into spring and when the 'big day' comes, Sherlock is forced to face his actions.

It was taking more hard work and more restraint than he’d ever shown in his life, but Sherlock was gradually getting back into Jamie’s good graces. They were sitting companionably in her flat one January afternoon, with Sherlock reading some sort of esoteric text on soil samples, and Jamie reading psychology journals.   
“Oof,” Jamie made a noise suddenly. Sherlock looked up, an eyebrow raised.   
“Just the baby kicking around,” she explained.   
“What does it feel like?”   
She looked at him, pondering, for a long moment. She gave him a half-smile and said,   
“Why don’t you come find out?” 

Both eyebrows now raised, he cocked his head and looked at her questioningly.   
“Are you certain you’re okay with that?”   
“Sherlock, you’ve been treating me with kid gloves for months. I’ve got to start forgiving you sometime and I figure now is as good a time as any. So come over here on the sofa with me and, well,” her voice quavered and her face filled with emotion.   
“Come over here and feel your son kicking, Sherlock.” She smiled slightly, feeling uncharacteristically emotional. 

He cautiously stood up and moved toward her as though he was afraid she would spook. She half sat, half laid on the sofa and made a small bit of room for him to perch alongside her. Sherlock sat down gingerly and hovered his hand over her little round belly.   
“Oof, there it is again!” She exclaimed. She grabbed his large, slender hand and put it firmly on the side of her swollen bump. Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide as he felt two definite, distinct ripples of movement beneath his palm.   
“What does that feel like...from the inside?” He marveled. 

“It’s not as magical as you’d think. More often than not it just feels like bad gas.” Saying this gave Jamie a fit of giggles and as she laughed, Sherlock could feel little ripples of movement inside her belly once more. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The remainder of the winter was gone in a flash. Dustings of snow blanketed London once or twice, never sticking around for long. In between cases, John and Sherlock were putting together a nursery in what used to be John’s room. Their bickering and indecision was endlessly amusing to Jamie, who had decided to stay out of it completely. John and Sherlock were going to be the boy’s parents, and as such they needed to be able to figure things out together. The glee Jamie got from laughing at the piles of parenting books Sherlock kept bringing home was well worth the dirty looks he shot her each time he caught her in mid-giggle. She and Mrs. Hudson shared a clandestine snicker when they once overheard an argument between Sherlock and John, with Sherlock insisting that the shade of blue they’d picked for the walls was not intellectually stimulating enough, and John quite vehemently telling Sherlock to piss off. 

 

March came along, it’s opening days unseasonably warm, causing things everywhere to burst into bloom early. Jamie, herself, rather hoped that she would ‘bloom’ sooner rather than later. The baby was sitting low, and each time she moved she felt as though she were hauling around a giant cinderblock. In the first week of March, Jamie got her wish.

Jamie awoke somewhere near 2 in the morning. She’d been experiencing random contractions here and there, and had been trying to doze through them as much as she could. Brushing the sleep out of her eyes, she felt a tiny puddle on the sheets below her. 

“Oh hell, here we go,” she said. She grabbed for her phone and sent the same text to three separate numbers: 

Water broke. Time to go. -jamie 

She hit send and couldn’t help but grin when, roughly two minutes later, she began hearing hurried footsteps pounding back and forth from the flat above. She eased herself out of the bed and winced as a sharp contraction came over her. Before doing anything else, she shuffled over and unlocked her door, not trusting that Sherlock and John wouldn’t just kick it down if they couldn’t open it immediately. By the time they were thundering down her stairs, she’d had to perch on the couch to keep the contractions from overwhelming her. John came in first, his cool head and medical know-how prevailing. He retrieved her overnight bag and was helping to stuff her feet into slippers before even saying a word. 

“Alright love?” He finally asked. All Jamie could do was nod and wince through the pain of her contractions. 

Sherlock was notably quiet, hovering in the doorway, his task of having called a cab complete. He observed quietly, his brain taking in every single bit of information. His emotions? He’d switched them off, to the best of his ability, as soon as he’d come in and seen Jamie nearly passed out from the pain. Knowing that he’d put her in this situation without her knowledge or consent made a pang of guilt hit him like a brick. There was no time, nor room, for sentiment like that in this moment, so he shut his feelings off and just observed. He was far more comfortable that way. John bustled around, in complete control, and Sherlock was willing to concede to him. 

The time came to try and get Jamie up the stairs, and she took them one at a time, wincing and bracing herself against the wall with every step. After what felt like decades to Sherlock, standing behind her, watching her struggle up the first couple steps, he spoke to her for the first time that night. 

“Turn around,” he commanded.   
Confused, she turned back until she was facing him.   
“Hold tight,” he said, and used the fact that she was two stairs above him for leverage as he scooped her up and carried her up the rest of the stairs, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he set her down as gently as he could. He brushed a tear of pain off of her cheek and simply nodded. 

“Very helpful Sherlock, thank you,” John said approvingly as he opened the door to usher them out onto the street. Fortuitously, the cab was just pulling up and they were able to arrange themselves in it with little problem. 

Jamie still groaned in pain every few minutes, which made the cabbie grow more and more uncomfortable. 

“Oi-” he called back to them, “She’s not going to make a mess of me cab, is she?” 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with rage but before he could open his mouth to speak, John was there. 

“She’s in labor, you tit! If you don’t get us to a hospital NOW I’m going to make a mess of your face, you fucking twat!” 

Sherlock’s eyes wide, he looked over at John in the seat next to him, gripping both of Jamie’s hands in his and staring daggers into the back of the cabbie’s head. All he could do was stare in awe as John kept things under control and, Sherlock noted, the driver sped up considerably without saying another word. 

John turned his focus back to Jamie, looking her in the eyes and telling her to keep breathing and squeezing his hands. 

“You’re doing great love,” he cooed. “Stay with me now, that’s it. Breathe through those bumps and we’ll have you to hospital before you know it.” 

Jamie nodded, her fear and anxiety melting as she breathed rhythmically with John, squeezing his palms for support. 

Sherlock had never been so terrified yet awed at the same time. John was absolutely perfect, he thought to himself. In the grand scheme of things he could never really be sure that he’d chosen John, or if John had chosen him the moment he’d fired a bullet into Sherlock’s would-be assassin. For once in his life, the hows and the whys didn’t matter to Sherlock: what mattered was the man beside him, the man who would continue to be beside him throughout their lives, if he had anything to say about it.


	24. Chapter 24

It was taking more hard work and more restraint than he’d ever shown in his life, but Sherlock was gradually getting back into Jamie’s good graces. They were sitting companionably in her flat one January afternoon, with Sherlock reading some sort of esoteric text on soil samples, and Jamie reading psychology journals.   
“Oof,” Jamie made a noise suddenly. Sherlock looked up, an eyebrow raised.   
“Just the baby kicking around,” she explained.   
“What does it feel like?”   
She looked at him, pondering, for a long moment. She gave him a half-smile and said,   
“Why don’t you come find out?” 

Both eyebrows now raised, he cocked his head and looked at her questioningly.   
“Are you certain you’re okay with that?”   
“Sherlock, you’ve been treating me with kid gloves for months. I’ve got to start forgiving you sometime and I figure now is as good a time as any. So come over here on the sofa with me and, well,” her voice quavered and her face filled with emotion.   
“Come over here and feel your son kicking, Sherlock.” She smiled slightly, feeling uncharacteristically emotional. 

He cautiously stood up and moved toward her as though he was afraid she would spook. She half sat, half laid on the sofa and made a small bit of room for him to perch alongside her. Sherlock sat down gingerly and hovered his hand over her little round belly.   
“Oof, there it is again!” She exclaimed. She grabbed his large, slender hand and put it firmly on the side of her swollen bump. Sherlock’s eyes flew open wide as he felt two definite, distinct ripples of movement beneath his palm.   
“What does that feel like...from the inside?” He marveled. 

“It’s not as magical as you’d think. More often than not it just feels like bad gas.” Saying this gave Jamie a fit of giggles and as she laughed, Sherlock could feel little ripples of movement inside her belly once more. 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The remainder of the winter was gone in a flash. Dustings of snow blanketed London once or twice, never sticking around for long. In between cases, John and Sherlock were putting together a nursery in what used to be John’s room. Their bickering and indecision was endlessly amusing to Jamie, who had decided to stay out of it completely. John and Sherlock were going to be the boy’s parents, and as such they needed to be able to figure things out together. The glee Jamie got from laughing at the piles of parenting books Sherlock kept bringing home was well worth the dirty looks he shot her each time he caught her in mid-giggle. She and Mrs. Hudson shared a clandestine snicker when they once overheard an argument between Sherlock and John, with Sherlock insisting that the shade of blue they’d picked for the walls was not intellectually stimulating enough, and John quite vehemently telling Sherlock to piss off.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

March came along, it’s opening days unseasonably warm, causing things everywhere to burst into bloom early. Jamie, herself, rather hoped that she would ‘bloom’ sooner rather than later. The baby was sitting low, and each time she moved she felt as though she were hauling around a giant cinderblock. In the first week of March, Jamie got her wish.

Jamie awoke somewhere near 2 in the morning. She’d been experiencing random contractions here and there, and had been trying to doze through them as much as she could. Brushing the sleep out of her eyes, she felt a tiny puddle on the sheets below her. 

“Oh hell, here we go,” she said. She grabbed for her phone and sent the same text to three separate numbers: 

Water broke. Time to go. -jamie 

She hit send and couldn’t help but grin when, roughly two minutes later, she began hearing hurried footsteps pounding back and forth from the flat above. She eased herself out of the bed and winced as a sharp contraction came over her. Before doing anything else, she shuffled over and unlocked her door, not trusting that Sherlock and John wouldn’t just kick it down if they couldn’t open it immediately. By the time they were thundering down her stairs, she’d had to perch on the couch to keep the contractions from overwhelming her. John came in first, his cool head and medical know-how prevailing. He retrieved her overnight bag and was helping to stuff her feet into slippers before even saying a word. 

“Alright love?” He finally asked. All Jamie could do was nod and wince through the pain of her contractions. 

Sherlock was notably quiet, hovering in the doorway, his task of having called a cab complete. He observed quietly, his brain taking in every single bit of information. His emotions? He’d switched them off, to the best of his ability, as soon as he’d come in and seen Jamie nearly passed out from the pain. Knowing that he’d put her in this situation without her knowledge or consent made a pang of guilt hit him like a brick. There was no time, nor room, for sentiment like that in this moment, so he shut his feelings off and just observed. He was far more comfortable that way. John bustled around, in complete control, and Sherlock was willing to concede to him. 

The time came to try and get Jamie up the stairs, and she took them one at a time, wincing and bracing herself against the wall with every step. After what felt like decades to Sherlock, standing behind her, watching her struggle up the first couple steps, he spoke to her for the first time that night. 

“Turn around,” he commanded.   
Confused, she turned back until she was facing him.   
“Hold tight,” he said, and used the fact that she was two stairs above him for leverage as he scooped her up and carried her up the rest of the stairs, her head resting on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he set her down as gently as he could. He brushed a tear of pain off of her cheek and simply nodded. 

“Very helpful Sherlock, thank you,” John said approvingly as he opened the door to usher them out onto the street. Fortuitously, the cab was just pulling up and they were able to arrange themselves in it with little problem. 

Jamie still groaned in pain every few minutes, which made the cabbie grow more and more uncomfortable. 

“Oi-” he called back to them, “She’s not going to make a mess of me cab, is she?” 

Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed with rage but before he could open his mouth to speak, John was there. 

“She’s in labor, you tit! If you don’t get us to a hospital NOW I’m going to make a mess of your face, you fucking twat!” 

Sherlock’s eyes wide, he looked over at John in the seat next to him, gripping both of Jamie’s hands in his and staring daggers into the back of the cabbie’s head. All he could do was stare in awe as John kept things under control and, Sherlock noted, the driver sped up considerably without saying another word. 

John turned his focus back to Jamie, looking her in the eyes and telling her to keep breathing and squeezing his hands. 

“You’re doing great love,” he cooed. “Stay with me now, that’s it. Breathe through those bumps and we’ll have you to hospital before you know it.” 

Jamie nodded, her fear and anxiety melting as she breathed rhythmically with John, squeezing his palms for support. 

Sherlock had never been so terrified yet awed at the same time. John was absolutely perfect, he thought to himself. In the grand scheme of things he could never really be sure that he’d chosen John, or if John had chosen him the moment he’d fired a bullet into Sherlock’s would-be assassin. For once in his life, the hows and the whys didn’t matter to Sherlock: what mattered was the man beside him, the man who would continue to be beside him throughout their lives, if he had anything to say about it.


	25. Chapter 25

Nearly 8 hours later, when Jamie’s labor was speeding up and it was clear that the baby’s arrival was imminent, John had caught Sherlock sidling toward the door, presumably to escape. John excused himself and grabbed Sherlock roughly by the collar, pulling him all the way out into the hallway and shutting the door behind them.   
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” John demanded.   
“I believe I’ve been adequately supportive, there’s no need for me to be present for the most...graphic moments.” Sherlock’s face was the picture of innocence, and John Watson was the only man alive who could have read it for what it was.   
John’s face turned to a mask of calmness, yet his eyes burned black. Sherlock knew that John only looked like this when he was really, truly furious. 

Furious as he was, John was able to take a moment to calm himself and think more rationally. 

"Sherlock," he began, trying to wrap his head around his lover's behavior, "The man who asked me to marry him is not the same man who is hiding from the consequences of his actions right now. I know you think that being alone protects you but all it really does is make things so much worse."

Sherlock sneered indignantly.   
"It's not like you to be so manipulative, John. I'm not hiding from anything or anyone. There's just no practical need for me to be present until after all...this is finished." 

"You think you're so clever, so clever that you can fool anyone," John accused.   
"But this time, I can see through it. I can tell what's going on and these aren’t the actions of the man I would marry." 

John grabbed Sherlock by the wrists, forcing the taller man to look down at him, and straight into his eyes. 

"You're frightened, Sherlock." John spoke softly.   
"Intellectually understanding what happens when a woman gives birth and seeing it happen, right there in front of you, knowing that it was your doing that put her in this kind of pain and agony...it's bringing up emotions in you that you're not certain how to deal with. So just as always, you turn inside yourself. You turn up the collar of that bloody great coat and stalk off into the darkness, taking solace in nothing and no one."   
John paused for breath before continuing.   
"Well I'm here to tell you, Sherlock Holmes, that that way of life is over for you. It was over the moment you chose to sleep with Jamie, and doubly so the night you asked me to marry you."   
John paused again, unsure of what to make of the look on Sherlock's face. It still radiated the same stoic superiority, but there was a softness to his eyes. He studied the floor a while before responding to John's speech.   
"So I suppose this is...guilt?" Sherlock questioned aloud. "I've nearly always managed to stay above the proceedings of others but...now there is no escaping that I am intimately involved here. I want to regain the solace in solitude which I used to have, but...that seems to be gone now. I don't know how to reconcile this new barrage of sentiment with my need for security..." 

John gave Sherlock a pitiable look.   
"Welcome to the human condition, love. You made choices. You imagined that the choices that were made could exist in a vacuum, without consequence or further need for human entanglement. But I'm here to tell you that this is only the beginning of the illogical mess that is loving others." 

Sherlock furrowed his brow, looking pained.   
"But don't despair, you." John placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder.   
"It may be an illogical mess, but it's the most rewarding thing you'll ever do." He smiled encouragingly. 

Sherlock ran his hands up and down John's arms, fiddling with the shirtsleeves until he found the words he wanted to say. 

"I'm not...accustomed to ignorance, John. For every puzzle, there has always been a logical solution. But this time, there isn't one. The solution rests upon the actions of others and those actions are never completely predictable, not when emotions are involved."

He dropped his head and wrapped his arms around the most steadying force he knew of in the universe: John. They held one another silently for a few moments as Sherlock continued to collect his thoughts. 

Minutes passed and Sherlock finally lifted his head, taking a deep breath. 

"I'm going to go back in there, John," he said quietly. "I'm going to go in there, and I am not going to know what to do. But I will be there. I will be there for Jamie because you have shown me by your example that simply being there can be helpful, even when there is no logical reason for that to be true." 

He put his hand in John's and asked,   
"Are you ready to go meet our son?"   
John looked at him deeply, the barest hint of a look of approval on his face. He thought for a moment, then said with a nod,   
“Sherlock, I think that you should go in there and talk to Jamie herself. Her labor will be over soon and I want you to have the opportunity to be alone with her.” 

Surprisingly, Sherlock made no move to protest. He merely took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and nodded before heading back inside the room. 

 

A duo of nurses were going back and forth, fussing over things in the room. When they saw him enter, they gave one another a knowing look before one made a hasty exit. The remaining nurse looked Sherlock up and down.   
“You’re the father, I’m presuming?” Standing barely 5 feet tall in cherry-colored scrubs, with her arms folded across her chest, even the willful Sherlock could tell that she was no one to trifle with. He merely swallowed dryly and nodded. The nurse pursed her lips and let out an exasperated sigh.   
“Well get to work with you, then!” She chastised Sherlock, pushing a cold cloth and a cup of ice into his hands. “Wipe her forehead with the cloth, feed her some of the ice chips, hold her hand! Go on with you!” 

“And stop looking so bloody frightened,” she added sotto voce. 

Jamie’s face contorted in pain every few minutes, making it very difficult for him to read her. He did as he was told and approached her bedside, positioning himself near her shoulder.

“A bit...over-dressed...aren’t you?”” Jamie panted in between contractions. Realizing he was still swathed in his woolen coat, he put down the supplies and made quick work of getting out of the coat, revealing beneath it a form-fitting shirt the color of aubergine. He rolled up his sleeves and came back to perch next to her, cold cloth in hand.   
Jamie grunted through a contraction and managed a wry grin.   
“You wore that same shirt, the night that we…”  
“Seemed appropriate. Synchronicity,” he mumbled. He busied himself by reaching over and brushing her hair gently away from her face and sponging her forehead with the cloth. Much to his surprise, tears sprang to her eyes.   
“Did I hurt you?” He asked, alarmed.   
“No, I...just...I’m really emotional right now!” She cringed through another wave of pain and began to sob.   
“This hurts so bad, and I’m mad and I’m afraid, and I just…” another wave hit her.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, when her hiccups and sobs subsided.   
She snorted.   
“A bit late for apologies!” She snarled.

"I *am* sorry. I am truly sorry that my ignorance did not allow me to recognize the emotional pain I've put you through until I witnessed the physical pain. Now that I see it, the two parts, together...I am sorry." he gently put a finger to her chin, turning her head to look at him.

In that moment, their eyes locked. In that moment, they were more of a singular entity than they had ever been, even when they had made love. Equal parts fear and determination shone in their eyes, and they gripped one another’s hands, knowing what had to be done.   
“Get that doctor back in here,” Jamie commanded through gritted teeth. She squeezed Sherlock’s hands and looked into his eyes knowingly.   
“Let’s have a baby,” she declared.


	26. Chapter 26

Within the hour, and at the very same hospital where John had met Sherlock three years before, their son was born. John was in doctor mode, observing the birth from over the obstetrician’s shoulder while Sherlock, true to his word, coached and reassured Jamie from the head of her bed.

 

“Sherlock,” John said in a tone which demanded attention, “It’s time you called your brother to let him know his nephew has arrived.”  
Displeased with John’s instructions yet knowing better than to argue when John engaged his ‘Captain Watson’ voice, Sherlock stifled a sigh before he turned on his heel and went out into the hall to call Mycroft. 

There was suddenly a lull in the amount of nurses coming and going and Jamie and John found themselves alone in the room together, the baby having fallen asleep on her chest. 

“You did an amazing job,” John told her, genuine admiration in his voice. 

“John,” she said, a serious note in her voice, “When I said that you and Sherlock were this baby’s parents, I really and truly meant that. And I know that this didn’t happen the way you would have wanted it to - it didn’t happen the way I would have planned it either- but he is here, and he is gorgeous and you and Sherlock are going to be amazing dads.” 

She smiled and shifted in her hospital bed, holding the baby up so they could both look at him.  
“That being said, I suppose I should tell you that Sherlock and I have made one last unilateral decision, John. We wanted you to feel just as much a part of this baby’s life as we are, so when we found out we were having a boy, well, we picked his name.” 

Jamie looked up at John, her eyes full of meaning. 

“John Hamish Watson, would you like to hold your son, Hamish Watson Holmes?” 

“Really?” John said, his voice barely above a whisper. Jamie nodded and passed the baby to him, pleased to see the emotions that were there in his face. 

John held the baby-a son, his son, for the first time. cradling him in his forearms and memorizing every curve of his tiny face. 

“Hello, Hamish,” John murmured, his eyes moist with tears, “I’m your Dad.” Hamish opened his blue eyes wide and looked up at John, blinking twice before yawning and falling asleep once again.   
It was then that Sherlock came back into the room, and if he wasn’t already hopelessly in love with John, he would have fallen hard at the scene before him. John was holding their son, cradling him gently and looking at him with a mixture of pride and happiness, tears sparkling in his eyes. 

John looked up when Sherlock entered the room and their eyes met. The look of pure, hopeless love in Sherlock’s eyes caused one or two of John’s happy tears to fall down his cheeks. Sherlock crossed the room in two of his long strides and embraced John carefully, making sure their son was safe between them. The tiny family unit clung together with happiness and Jamie gave them their peace as long as she could, finally interrupting with a small cough. 

“Ahem, boys, I know you’re bonding and all, but...well, I would really very much like to see my girlfriend now.” She smiled sheepishly.   
Their reverie broken, John looked over at Jamie apologetically as Sherlock placed a kiss on his forehead. 

“Sorry James,” John said affectionately. Shall I call her in?” 

“Please,” Jamie said, smiling and blushing slightly at John’s use of an affectionate nickname. 

John handed Hamish over to Sherlock and went in search of Molly. For all of Jamie’s doubts, Sherlock certainly looked like a natural, holding their son. He cradled the boy gently yet firmly, and his blue-green eyes were attentively taking in each and every one of Hamish’s features. 

John came back shortly, Molly trailing behind him. She looked concerned, seeing Jamie there in the hospital bed, but she felt relief when Jamie gave her a reassuring smile. 

With a blush, Molly brandished a small, cheery bouquet of flowers from behind her back.

“Hello, beautiful,” Jamie greeted her with a tired yet genuine smile. 

“I...these are for you,” Molly stammered. She took a moment to take in the scene before her. John and Sherlock were huddled by the window with Hamish, taking in his every feature and reveling in their first precious minutes of being a family. Jamie was aware of them in her periphery, but from the moment Molly walked in, Jamie only had eyes for her. Molly blushed under Jamie’s adoring gaze and allowed herself to marvel, for just a moment, at what an odd yet beautiful scene this was. A truly modern family, unlike anything she’d ever seen before, and nothing she would ever want to be without. Once her thoughts were gathered, Molly crossed the room and arranged the flowers on the table beside Jamie’s bed before bending down and kissing Jamie’s cheek. “Are you...alright? Did everything go okay?” Molly asked with concern in her voice and on her brow. 

“Just fine, Molly, thank you,” Jamie responded, genuinely pleased to have Molly beside her. “I’m exhausted, but, you know, I just made a person,” she joked. Noting that Molly was still uneasy, Jamie soothed her. 

“Seriously, I am fine. No complications, no troubles. Everything went as well as it could have and Hamish and I should be released tomorrow.”

Molly finally relaxed a little once she’d been reassured. 

“I just worry, you know,” she began. “I always see the other side of life, err, death, what with being in the morgue all day, and the complications, and the things that can go wrong, and the health problems women don’t even know they have until they undergo the stress of giving birth, and then embolisms can burst, and there’s a risk of stroke, not to mention tearing and hemorrhage--” 

“Molly,” Sherlock warned, with just a touch of ice in his voice. She looked up, surprised that he had been listening to her. She paled a little, realizing she’d been rambling on about quite dark things at a time when they were all supposed to be so happy. Molly mumbled an apology and grasped Jamie’s hand, entwining their fingers together. Jamie gave Molly a reassuring squeeze.


	27. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in the end...the love you take is equal to the love you make. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> I have held on to these last few chapters for far too long because I did not want to say goodbye. But a new story is burning in my mind and it is time to let go. I hope it's been as enjoyable for you as it has been for me. 
> 
> With Gratitude,  
> Frances.

Some hours later, Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella on the door frame lightly to get Jamie’s attention. Her eyes fluttered open and she took in a deep breath when she saw who had come to call.

“Your brother is down the hall in the nursery,” she pointed.

“Yes, I’m quite aware. I’d rather hoped to speak to you.”

A mixture of tiredness and politeness kept Jamie from telling Mycroft to piss off. Instead, she waved a hand to indicate the empty chair at her bedside, inviting him to take a seat. He turned the chair so that it faced her and sat.

“I misjudged you,” he said, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I’ve been made aware of Sherlock’s manipulation of both you and John and I am terribly sorry if he has hurt you.”

‘Do you do this a lot?” Jamie asked. “Do you run along behind Sherlock, paying bribes and smoothing the ruffled feathers he leaves in his wake?”

“Hardly,” Mycroft snorted. “When it comes to Sherlock I find myself most often in the position of saving him from himself.”

She nodded, letting the information sink in.

“I’ve been to see the child,” Mycroft said in a gentle tone. “He is...extraordinary.”

“He’s Sherlock’s son,” Jamie responded. “He would be.”  
“Not just Sherlock though,” Mycroft countered. “You as well. And I hope that your qualities somehow find a way to soften the Holmes genetics.”  
She studied his face for a moment or two before asking,  
“Do you have children, Mycroft?”  
His eyes opened wide at the suggestion.  
“Heavens no,” he scoffed.  
“Want them someday?” She probed.  
It took Mycroft a moment of thought before he answered.

“I keep my private life very much to myself.”

“That answers my question,” she said with a nod. Maybe it was the surge of post-birth hormones, maybe it was parts of Sherlock she saw in him, she’d never know. But Jamie felt the tiniest wave of emotion in Mycroft’s benefit and she reached through the rail of her hospital bed and grasped one of his soft, manicured hands. Despite his initial shock he managed not to instantly recoil, instead allowing her hand to rest atop his.

“Well, Mister Private Government Man,” she began, “You’re an uncle now. Uncle Mycroft. Get used to it. Revel in it. And when international politics threatens to take that last little thread of humanity from you, the part of you which you’ve used to keep watch over Sherlock all these years, come play with your nephew. Roll around on the floor with him, build Lego forts with him. It will do you a lot of good.” She cast a meaningful glance into his steely eyes.

For a second so brief she almost thought she’d imagined it, Mycroft’s eyes softened.  
“The boy -Hamish- is very lucky to have you as a mother.”  
“Nope,” Jamie countered. “I’m his aunt. I may have given actual, physical birth, but Hamish’s parents have been Sherlock and John from the very moment they first held him. In fact, the birth certificate says as much. Parent 1 and Parent 2.”

“No regrets?” Mycroft asked, eyebrows raised.  
She let out a chuckle.  
“None. Granted, this is not how I’d intended to spend my first year in London, but life happens, doesn’t it? We are all people who are just stumbling toward our own truth and sometimes, in that pursuit, we fumble. But what we do once we’ve got our hands on the ball again is what makes all the difference in the world.”

With Jamie’s blessing, Sherlock and John were the ones who took their son home from hospital the following day. As they gathered the car seat and bundled him up, John promised that he would check in on her once she’d gotten home herself. She waved a fond farewell to the three of them and prepared for her own trip home. Molly would be there meeting her soon and they would ride to Baker Street together. As she stuffed her dirty clothes back into her overnight bag, Jamie spotted a long velvet box sitting in with the rest of her things. Puzzled, she picked it up and opened it. What she saw inside made her gasp. Inside was a necklace, and a handwritten note.

Jamie,  
Thank you for the gift of life.  
Both Hamish’s and mine.  
Forever in your debt,  
SH

Tears welling up and trickling down her face, Jamie examined the necklace in the box. On a long, solid silver chain rested a perfectly round, flat silver disc. There were three faceted stones embedded into the face of the disc. Puzzled, Jamie turned the pendant over in her palm and found an engraving, done in a very fine, elegant script:

SH-----JVB  
         |  
         |  
      HWH

It suddenly hit her. Those were their initials, and the initials of their biological son. She flipped the pendant over once more and realized that the placement of the gemstones on the opposite side corresponded with their initials: it was their birthstones. A rich garnet for Sherlock’s January birthday, an emerald for her own May birthday, and a brilliant little aquamarine for Hamish’s March birthday. She’d had no idea that Sherlock could be capable of such a gesture, and she knew, in that moment, that the token would not be a painful reminder of a terrible betrayal. It would be a quiet reminder that love can conquer hate. She clasped it around her neck with a smile and slipped it beneath her sweatshirt.


	28. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly a year and a half after the conclusion of The Renter

Little Hamish toddled across the sitting room and John had to scoop him up and redirect him away from the Christmas tree once again.  John chuckled indulgently and tickled his son’s belly, filling the flat on Baker Street with peals of tiny laughter.    
  
Molly and Jamie sat huddled together on the sofa, comfortably leaning into one another, and Sherlock was going back and forth between some experiments he was running in the kitchen and paying attention to what was happening in the sitting room.    
  
“Sherlock,” John called. “Could you come in here a mo’, I think we should all be in here for this.”    
  
“Mhm,” was the only reaction Sherlock gave, peering into a microscope on the kitchen table.    
  
John rolled his eyes and said, “He’ll be along shortly I’m sure, and then we can talk about why I’ve asked you here.”    
  
“Oh!”  Sherlock cried from the kitchen.  “Why didn’t you say that is what you wanted to talk about, John?  Be direct!”  Sherlock swept into the room and grabbed Hamish from John, thrilling the little boy as he dropped into his chair with a whump.  

 

“So, erm, ladies, we decided to ask you here tonight because we’ve been thinking about some things, and we know that you’re in a relationship now, as are we, but we were wondering if you’d consider-”   
  
Sherlock cut him off with a dramatic sigh.    
  
“Jamie would you act as surrogate for us once again, this time using John’s DNA?”    
  
Molly let her drink down onto the table with a thud that was just a touch too hard.  She gulped and looked in the direction of her girlfriend, who was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.   
  
“Honestly,” Jamie said, “I think I preferred John’s method of chatting me up.” She winked.  

 

“Sherlock!” John scolded.   
  
“What? If I’d let you carry on the way you were going, Hamish would be in sixth form by the time you’d gotten the question out.”  

 

The ladies giggled to themselves before Jamie looked to John and said, “Ok, so, give me the not-quite-as-abridged-as-Sherlock’s version, please?”    
  
John looked over at his husband, who had begun innocently playing pattycake with Hamish on his lap.  He sighed and turned to Jamie.    
  
“Well, Sherlock felt that this was a prime age for Hamish to have a sibling.  We discussed it, and we felt that if you were willing, it would be ideal for you to carry the child again, considering that would make it Hamish’s half sibling.”    
  
Jamie nodded slowly, mulling it over.  She suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a gale of giggles.    
John nervously looked first to Molly, and then to Sherlock in an attempt to decipher Jamie’s behavior.    
  
“Sorry, John,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye and calming her giggles. “Don’t take offense love, but I’m guessing we wouldn’t be conceiving this child in quite the same way Hamish was!”    
  
John blushed in spite of himself.    
  
“No.  No, see, I was going to get to that, I had a whole speech lined up.”  He shot a glare at his husband, still innocently playing with their son.  “No, I-we, we felt that it would be best for this to happen via artificial insemination.”   
  
Jamie nodded her understanding.    
  
“Well, boys,” she said, “Give it a few days, okay?  Let Molly and I talk about this, and think things over, and I will let you know, alright?”  She giggled mischievously and whispered in her partner’s ear.  Molly blushed and nodded before Jamie stood up and declared,   
  
“Of course, I just got permission from my missus, so if you want we can just do away with all this artificial insemination nonsense and have it on right now, John!”  Jamie couldn’t hold back her laughter now, and she inched toward John like a predator, her arms outstretched and her fingers curled like talons, ready to catch him in her clutches.  For the briefest of moments John thought she’d lost her mind, but when he saw her laughter and Molly’s blushing giggles, he knew they were having a laugh.  Sherlock, still only halfway paying attention to their conversation, piped up.   
  
“See, John?  I told you it would be easier if you did away with all this ‘proper hospital procedure’ nonsense and just had a shag.”    
  
Now everyone in the room, with the exception of Sherlock and Hamish, were blushing deeply.  Jamie rolled her eyes and flopped back down onto the sofa next to her girl and pulled her into a cuddle.    
  
When the laughter died down, Jamie said, a little more soberly,   
  
“I’m glad we can laugh about this, now.”    
  
In that moment everyone looked up, and they looked from one to the other, all knowing that what Sherlock had done very nearly torn their lives apart.  It was nigh unforgivable, and if any of them had an inkling that Sherlock hadn’t learned a grave lesson from it, none of them would be there.  

 

In a rare moment of emotional clarity, Sherlock looked upon them all and said, very genuinely,   
  
“I’m sorry.  I know that it is my nature to say that I was right all along and I just had to get you to understand, but...it is really only because you are the most loving, forgiving people I’ve ever met that we are all sitting here today.  I owe you a debt of gratitude, each and every one of you.”  His eyes sincere, he made eye contact with each of them in turn, and they all knew.  Each of them there, in that room that night, knew that hate was the flipside of love.  And that they were all stronger, better, wiser people because of what they’d been through, together.  

 

 

 


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after the birth of Hamish...

 


End file.
